


Missed the Train but Caught You Looking

by kenthel



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drinking, Jealousy, M/M, POV Alternating, Pining, Sexual Content, Unrequited Crush, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2019-09-18 09:10:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16992165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenthel/pseuds/kenthel
Summary: Kuroo Tetsurou has a habit of falling for all his friends that he just can't kick. His roommate, Sugawara Koushi, is feeling insecure in his long-distance relationship. It had only been matter of time before one of them caught the other in a compromising position.





	1. Suga

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the HQ Big Bang 2018! 
> 
> I was paired with the lovely artist laomin. Truly captured the feeling in the scene. I'm in awe.
> 
> A link to the beautiful artwork created for the fic: [here](https://laomin.tumblr.com/post/181141546961/i-joined-the-hqbb-this-year-and-i-was-paired-with)
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you like it. :D

“I’m sorry.”

Suga rolls over onto his side and curls in on himself. He lies on top of the blankets with his head resting on a flat pillow. A faint, stale scent of sex clings to the bedding and hangs in the air of the dusty room.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Daichi replies. There is a lot of gentle about Daichi. Soft voice, a light touch of fingertips against Suga’s bare shoulder, and easy acceptance. “You know that you don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to. It’s okay. It’s always okay.”

“I just feel guilty _denying_ you all the time.” 

Daichi shifts closer and wraps an arm around Suga’s middle. He places a kiss into his messy hair and mutters, “Don’t be, don’t be.” 

Suga looks down at the floor on the side of the bed to his discarded boxers and sweatpants with a frown. He feels Daichi’s body heat, the sweat of their tangled legs, the familiar itch of regrowing chest hair against his back, and slow, steady breaths on the back of his ear. There is a disquieting reminder in the form of yet another unopened condom sitting on the nightstand, shining in the silver moonlight. He allows Daichi’s fingers to find their way between his.

“I love you, Suga,” Daichi says with a squeeze of his hand.

The darkness is unending when Suga closes his eyes. The night becomes the neighbor’s muffled television programs and the sleepless street outside the window as Daichi holds his breath, waiting for a response. 

“I love you too.”


	2. Kuroo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kuroo goes out for karaoke with friends from class. Gets closer to one of them than he expected to.

Kuroo bounces the tambourine against his thigh with one hand and drains his beer with the other. It’s only his second, but the night is young. The TA that had proctored their exam is an embarrassingly good singer and is singing a song in _korean_. Kuroo either needs up his alcohol intake or play it cool as back-up percussion for the rest of the night.

He elbows the guy next to him. “Hey Bo, can you order me another?” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, sure.” Bokuto slides out of the booth and picks up the phone. The women yell over the music for him to order things for them too and Bokuto gives them an enthusiastic thumbs up. 

  


By midnight, there’s enough slush interfering with his brain for Kuroo to stop regretting the bad integration he’d done on the exam and to choose a song to sing. He passes the tambourine off to Bokuto as he picks up the microphone. His classmates cheer and clap and sing along with him, that much Kuroo could see. All he can hear is the pounding jangle of the tambourine striking Bokuto’s wide, open palm over and over again. 

Kuroo gives an uncoordinated bow at the end of his song. “Thank you, thank you.” 

“Encore!” Bokuto cheers. Even in the dim, colored light from the TV screen, his face is visibly flushed. 

A handful of people finish their drinks and gather their belongings. One lingers by the doorway and waits for Bokuto’s attention. 

“Last train’s in ten minutes, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, raising his voice over the music. He looks tired and sober. 

If you ask Kuroo, Akaashi always looks tired and sober. It’s an unfortunate consequence of being the only one in the study group unable to drink.

“What! You’re leaving?” Bokuto whines. He grabs onto the man’s coat. “Akaaaaashi, we just started having fun.” 

Akaashi sighs. A transparent sadness and disappointment marks his face with a slight frown and glitterless eyes. “I want to stay. I really do.”

“Then stay!” Bokuto insists, tugging harder on Akaashi’s coat.

“I have the first shift tomorrow at the library,” Akaashi explains. He turns towards the door and checks his watch.

Bokuto wilts with a sag of his shoulders and lets him go. “Right. I knew that. Let me just find my phone and I’ll come-”

“No,” Akaashi interrupts. “Stay, have fun for me. I’ll text you when I get home, okay?” 

“Alright! I’ll have the best night and tell you all about it,” Bokuto agrees. “Though, I wish you could just stay.”

“Me too.” Akaashi initiates a good-bye hug that he doesn't appear entirely comfortable with and awkwardly pats Bokuto’s back while getting the breath squeezed out of him. He meets Kuroo’s eye while trapped in the embrace and levels him with a narrowed glare of _what the fuck are you looking at_.

Kuroo chooses that moment to stop intensely creeping on their interactions and finish his drink.

  


At one, Kuroo taps Bokuto’s thigh to let him out of the booth. The fight between needing to wait until after his song came on and his bladder threatens to end poorly.

His silent request is met with an effortless smile of big teeth caught mid-laugh and thick eyebrows raised in honest amusement. This gives Kuroo pause, a long one. He lingers on the wetness on Bokuto’s lip, the shadow on his throat, the tightness of his shirt, and the ink-stained, even fingernails drumming on the table. Even drunk and tired, his mind has no problem informing him that his fixation is the result of spontaneous attraction. 

But now is not the time to explore that idea. He leans on Bokuto’s shoulder and shields his mouth as he whispers in Bokuto’s ear.

“Hey.” He feels Bokuto stiffen with immediate attention. There’s a lingering whiff of body spray clinging to the collar of his t-shirt. “Let me out.” 

After another familiarly long moment, Bokuto nods.

  


It’s approaching three o’clock when Kuroo musters the courage to casually drape his arm along the top of the booth behind Bokuto. He works on a glass of tap water and isn’t sure how capable he is of walking. 

The group hasn’t queued a song for about twenty minutes. The TA is passed out in a corner with one student sleeping on his shoulder and another on his lap. There are about 12 glasses in varying states of emptied gathered in the middle of the table with the unused ashtrays and abandoned microphones. 

Judging by the rapid-fire storytelling, Bokuto isn’t tired yet. 

“You know, I think the first time I did karaoke with was with my grandma,” Bokuto starts. He checks the ceiling as he recalls the details, hardly meeting Kuroo’s eye. “Yeah, it was. I remember because there was the unlimited soda fountain and she told me that I could only have orange juice. So, I kept going to get refills and putting whatever soda in the orange juice to hide it and it actually didn’t taste bad at all.”

“Sprite and orange juice isn’t that bad,” Kuroo adds, enjoying Bokuto’s pantomiming. He notices how Bokuto has a limited amount of go-to gestures that he recycles and repurposes throughout his recollections.

Bokuto beams. “Right? I’m pretty sure that was the best one. What about you? You remember your first time?”

Unrelated memories flood Kuroo inappropriately at the mention of _first time_. Like when he kissed his childhood best friend to only have his face pushed away and asked politely not to do that again. Or the time Momoka from cram school successfully jerked him off through his underwear as he covered the side of her neck with saliva and bruises. 

“I think it was with people from my high school club around Christmas or something,” Kuroo replies. “I don’t think I liked it, at first. Frozen was still super popular and that’s all anyone was singing.”

“You don’t like Frozen?” Bokuto seems disappointed. 

Kuroo shrugs and runs his hand through his hair nervously. “I mean, the movie’s alright, but I wasn’t really into it.”

Bokuto scooches closer. “What’re you really into?” 

Studying, Naruto, looking at Reddit, his mind supplies uselessly. Fuck, doesn’t he have some kind of relatable hobby?

He looks away for a moment to gather his thoughts. “Um, well. . .”

After Bokuto presses a kiss to the side of his face, he realizes that it didn’t really matter. Kuroo lets his arm drop from the top of the booth onto Bokuto’s back and meets him, heat to heat and tongue to tongue. Bokuto’s hand sloppily makes its way into his hair and gets caught in the tangles. Kuroo is afraid to open his eyes as he huffs breaths through his nose, revisits the taste of the beer, and lets his free hand wander up the inside of Bokuto’s strong thigh. 

The phone on the wall rings.

They jolt apart. Kuroo brings fingers up to the lip that had been between Bokuto’s teeth and they come away a bit red. He sucks in his lip and runs his tongue over it as Bokuto nonchalantly answers the phone. 

The other occupants of the room stir and start apologizing for various things. The TA checks his phone, lets out a curse in the form of a long hiss, and rubs his eyes. Kuroo’s classmates gather their things with blushing faces and mussed hair.

“Okay, got it,” Bokuto says into the phone before hanging it back on the hook. “That was the fifteen minute warning.”

  


Once outside, the party disperses into different directions. Kuroo says his good-byes and takes two long, unsure, strides towards the campus before he looks over his shoulder. 

Bokuto stands staring at the phone in his hands with furrowed brows and a shaky unsteadiness. He sighs into the night air and says to no one, “Two hours until first train.” 

Kuroo calls out, “Hey, want to grab some food or something?”

“Huh?” Bokuto stumbles backwards as he struggles to focus on who was speaking. “Oh, _oh._ Yeah, food sounds great.” 

“There’s a McDonald’s somewhere,” Kuroo offers.

“You’re the best, man.” Bokuto takes one steady step before he veers into the street and leans on the door of an out-of-service taxi. “Oh, sorry, just a second.”

There is no way Kuroo would leave Bokuto alone like that. He walks over and hooks an arm around him. They walk vaguely arm-in-arm as Kuroo steers them a couple blocks through the city’s nightlife and towards the golden arches. 

“I’m so happy that you were out tonight, so happy,” Bokuto is saying. He has the presence to lower his voice, but not nearly enough for a private conversation. “You’re so smart and beautiful too. You’re a good friend. And I wouldn’t mind if-” He is interrupted by a sudden bout of hiccups. 

Kuroo is achingly interested in where the rest of that sentence was going even as he still burns from being called _smart and beautiful_. He doesn’t even care if it’s the alcohol talking - it has somehow, tragically, been years since someone he was attracted to complimented him. Suppose that’s to be expected when surround yourself with academic peers, never go out or join clubs, and spend your free time sitting in your dorm room. 

Bokuto can’t get a new sentence out edgewise without being interrupted by a hiccup and is growing frustrated. “We should - hic - get an orange juice and - hic - and and - hic - come on, sprite - hic.” 

“How about some water, to start?” Kuroo suggests, leading them onto the line and earning strange looks from the customers ahead of them.

Bokuto has no problem demolishing three hamburgers and a large french fries without assistance, pause, or breath. Kuroo watches in awe as Bokuto picks up a pickle that had fallen out of his sandwich, drowns it in ketchup, and slurps it down. The plan is to eat as slowly as possible to not be asked to leave before the first train, but Kuroo, oddly enough, enjoys watching Bokuto mercilessly scarf down calories with abandon. 

And Kuroo watches, waiting for the opening, his own chicken sandwich going cold in his hands.

“You mind?” Bokuto asks, gesturing towards Kuroo’s mostly untouched pile of french fries.

“Be my guest.”

A longer, soggier fry is dipped into ketchup and brought up to Bokuto’s lips. It dangles limply between them and smears ketchup along his chin.

Kuroo holds his breath. It’s now or never. He reaches out, takes Bokuto’s chin in his hand, and wipes away the ketchup with his thumb. His heart pounds.

“You had something on you.” Kuroo makes intentional eye contact and licks his finger clean. He doesn’t like ketchup at all.

“Oh, thanks,” Bokuto says, unfazed and already reaching for another handful of fries.

  


Kuroo and Bokuto leave McDonald’s, have a brief chat about what to do next, and agree to return to Kuroo’s dorm room just to sit down somewhere without having to pay any more money. 

Bokuto is able to walk independently as he sips from his cup of ice water. He walks quietly and occasionally raises a hand to massage his head. 

“I don’t know if my roommate will be home,” Kuroo says. “He tries to spend quality time with his other half on the weekends or practices cello in the music building.”

“At four o'clock in the morning? He a music major?”

Kuroo waves his hand. “No, no. He’s a psych major, but he doesn’t want to fall behind with his music, you know?”

“Yeah, I can understand that,” Bokuto replies. He looks off into the distance. “I wonder what things I’ve fallen behind in since university.” 

The streets are far from empty, but they’re quiet. Cocky birds strut around the net-covered piles of garbage and pick at the scraps. Taxis gather around abandoned bus stops and outside closed train stations, willing to bring the night’s lost and wandering home for a hefty chunk of change. A side alley cutting through the block towards campus is lined with _hourly_ hotels with neon lights and frosted windows. The sky is deep-blue and starless. A pair of commercial airplanes streak slowly across the atmosphere in opposite directions. There’s moonlight obscured by a fraying cloud.

Their university scattered its dormitories along the outskirts of the campus. Kuroo lives in one that stands wide with brown brick walls and square windows. Most of the residents’ lights are off. The lobby is warm and inviting through the glass doors plastered with advertisements for campus events. 

“You’re allowed to have people over?” Bokuto asks, unsure. He hovers outside the door that Kuroo holds open for him. “I don’t want to get you in trouble or anything.” 

“You have your student ID on you, right?” Kuroo waits for Bokuto’s confirmation before continuing. “Then it won’t be a problem, just takes a moment to sign you in as a guest.” 

Seated at the check-in desk, sporting thick-framed glasses, under-eye bags, and rippling confidence, is Oikawa Tooru. He looks up from doodling in the margins on the sign-in lists with a pout of faux-surprise and lets his eyes lazily draw lines between Kuroo and his guest. 

“You’re never this late, Tetsurou,” Oikawa tuts. He crosses his legs and inspects the fingernails on his right hand without interest.

Kuroo blushes and reaches for the pen to fill out the information. “Just out having fun.” 

“Oh, I bet the fun’s just begun,” Oikawa says. He glances over Bokuto’s ID and hands it back over. “A reminder that visitors are only permitted to stay over for two nights in a row. Though, since you’re my _favorite_ resident, perhaps I’d be willing to forget that this technically counts as the first night.” 

Bokuto stands with his hands in his pockets and shrugs in response to the RA’s insinuation. After half a beat, Bokuto adds, “Suppose it’s a good thing that I’ve got my own apartment, then.” 

“Ah, but it’s no fun for me when my residents go outside the dorms to have their relationships, Bokuto Koutarou-san,” Oikawa states lightly. He brings his longest fingernail up to his lips before shoving that hand into the pocket of his residence hall student association sweatshirt.

Kuroo says, “Well, that’s not my problem, man. Night.”

“Yeah, what he said,” Bokuto agrees. He adds a small wave. “Good night!” 

Oikawa’s long sigh follows them around the corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's not read too far into the character's ages compared to what year they are in college, okay? :D
> 
> thank you for reading!


	3. Wake Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suga and Kuroo wake up the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pov alternation begins.

“You have to get up, Suga,” Daichi says. He has already snoozed the alarm twice after Suga’s grumbles. 

Suga shields his eyes against the bedroom light Daichi switches on like the traitor he is. He hears the coffee pot gurgling happily in the kitchen and the intermittent squawks of birds. He is usually up before the birds.

“I can’t do it. I’m too tired,” Suga complains mid-yawn. 

Daichi kisses his arm. The kisses were small and quick and covered him from wrist to elbow deftly. He nudges the limp arm blocking Suga’s face aside with his stubbly chin and rubs his nose against Suga’s.

“Daichi. .” Suga continues to refuse to open his eyes.

“Does it have to come to this?” Daichi asks playfully as he puts his hands on Suga’s sensitive sides. “Or should I skip to the spray bottle?”

This gets Suga to force one eye open. “You wouldn’t dare.” 

“Oh, but I do.”

This serves as the final warning before strong, fingers worm into Suga’s underarms. Suga clamps his arms down in a fruitless attempt to crush the invading hands into submission and kicks against the mattress. He lets out an undignified yell between bouts of high-pitched laughter. 

“Okay, okay!” Suga says breathlessly, feebly pushing away Daichi with shaking fingers. “Okay, I’m awake.” 

Daichi interrupts Suga’s gulp of air with a kiss. Suga wraps his arms around Daichi’s shoulders and coaxes him to roll on top him. Their kisses are wet and heavy and often interrupted by nibbles and giggles. Daichi presses a thigh between his legs and Suga breaks the kiss, turning his face to the side with a frown.

“Sorry,” Suga and Daichi say in unison. 

Daichi rolls away and tucks himself back into his boxers. He clears his throat and scratches the back of his head. He faces away from Suga and turns the alarm clock on the nightstand towards him.

Suga sits up with a sigh. “What time is it?”

“It’s 5:02,” Daichi answers.

“Fuck!” Suga jumps out of bed and gathers his clothes from the floor. He finds his backpack by the door, pulls out his clean outfit, and stuffs the dirty one inside. He dresses in a violent whirlwind, cursing at the button down as he struggles to fasten the buttons. 

“I’ll. . . get you a to-go cup?” Daichi offers, giving Suga a wide berth as he crosses his own bedroom towards the kitchen.

Suga stuffs his wrinkled shirt and undershirt into his pants before remembering that his belt is still on yesterday’s pants. He wants to throw his backpack across the room. That’s a reasonable response to this situation. His reply is clipped and threatening. “That’d be great, thanks.”

Daichi, now in a t-shirt, holds out the thermos like a peace offering. He takes a moment and gives his next statement warily. “You can probably make the 5:22 on the blue line, but if you don’t, there’s another one after that in ten minutes.” 

“What time does it get in?” Suga doesn’t even want to know. 

“6:33.” 

Suga takes the thermos and a deep breath. The coffee smells heavenly - Daichi must have bought that expensive vanilla stuff for him again. “That’s not as bad as I thought.” 

“You really should get going though. Text me when you’re on the train.” Daichi cups Suga’s face with both hands and kissed his forehead, both his cheeks, then his lips.

The aftertaste of coffee lingers after the kiss and Suga licks his lips after they parted. He lets Daichi help him balance as he slips on his shoes at the door.

“You’re coming up to me next week,” Suga declares. He raises his coffee in farewell. “And there better be more of this stuff when you do.”

Daichi’s smile crinkles his eyes and nods. “You’re getting spoiled.”

“As if you would have it any other way,” Suga replies. He closes the door and sprints down the corridor towards the stairs. He takes the steps two at a time and almost slips rounding the corner onto the sidestreet. His hair bounces against his forehead. This is the absolute worst moment to recall that he had forgotten to put on deodorant before he left the apartment. 

The neighborhood cat sits by the vending machines on the corner, grooming its face with one paw. Its tail twitches excitedly at the sight of Suga and it lets out a loud, whiny meow.

“Sorry, friend, not today!” Suga calls over his shoulder.

A shuffling, hungover woman in a black pantsuit with a messy bun glares at Suga as he charges ahead of her into the subway stairwell. He hears the announcement of the train arriving to the platform. He holds his phone in one hand and his backpack in the other. He boops the back of his phone, doesn’t bother to check the balance on his IC card, and hurries down the next set of stairs.

The train starts to play its jingle. The next announcement says, “The track one train doors are closing, please be careful.” 

Suga makes it to the platform and waves at the conductor. The doors stay open for him and he collapses onto the bench of seats adjacent to the door. He laughs quietly to himself and catches his breath, trying to minimize the noise in the deathly quiet subway car. He drinks from the thermos and scalds his tongue. He then pulls out his phone to send a message to Daichi.

**Made it! Also, expect a lawsuit.**

Daichi’s response is almost instantaneous. 

_What’d I do this time?_

Suga giggles, content to keep Daichi awake his entire train ride when they both could be getting some much-needed extra sleep, and keeps texting.

  


Kuroo wakes when a heavy arm falls across his face. He pulls it down to cross over his chest and yawns. His stomach is unhappy and indecisive, sending him the mixed signals of “send more in” and “everybody out” simultaneously. While Kuroo has certainly suffered from worse, the rush of having another body in his bed is significantly dampened by the throbs of pain that accompany his quickening pulse.

Bokuto isn’t exactly _holding_ Kuroo as much as he’d rolled over and dropped his arm across the side of the bed that Kuroo occupied. He’s a bit pale and mouth-breathes loudly in his sleep. He’d taken off his long-sleeve shirt, leaving him in a plain white tank-top untucked from his shorts and bunched up above his waist. He has a thin patch of body hair around his navel that loosely forms a path to the waistband of his underwear. 

Not that Kuroo is looking, of course.

The room is quiet. The sun’s rays are blocked by the partially closed blinds over the south-facing windows in the dormitory room. With a glance through squinting eyes, Kuroo notes that his roommate’s cello is still sitting besides the desk underneath the loft bed. He reaches over to grab his phone off the charger on top of his dresser to check the time, sees that he has no new messages, and puts it back. 

Kuroo hadn’t been sure what was going to happen when he brought Bokuto into his room. He does know that he’s still exhausted and hungover and that the idea of getting out of bed felt like it will lead to his immediate, untimely death. He also has to admit that they’d probably recover much more in their own beds instead of two large grown-ass men sharing a single twin. Kuroo stares at the ceiling and blames it for what he was about to do.

He inches his way off the mattress, being careful not to disturb Bokuto. He gets one foot on the floor and starts to sit up when the dead arm resting on his stomach reanimates and grabs his side.

Bokuto hums and tugs Kuroo closer. He doesn’t open his eyes, but his lips close with a smack and he takes a sharp inhale through his nose. He asks, “Where ya goin’?”

Kuroo’s first destination had been his desk, but the wave of dizziness that washes over him as he sits up changes his mind. “The floor?”

“What? No,” Bokuto objects, awake now. He looks up at Kuroo with pained eyes. “Dude, it’s your bed.”

“You’re the guest though,” Kuroo argues back weakly. He really just wants to lay back down, maybe drink a couple liters of Pocari. “It’s. . it’s really fine. I don’t mind at all.”

Something in Bokuto breaks and falls apart into a haggard sigh. “I should go.”

“Oh.” Kuroo pulls his other leg off the bed and sits on the sideways on the edge, watching Bokuto carefully. He tries his best to not look crushed. He’s being ridiculous anyway - he’d see Bokuto first thing Monday morning during lab and they would just go back to . . .how they were.

“It’s just-” Bokuto runs his hand through his hair and sends flakes of gel into the air. “-I’ve still got that review packet to go through and I told ‘Kaashi that I’d meet him in the library and I gotta feed my fish. .”

“Yeah,” Kuroo replies. He can’t quite swallow the lump in his throat. “It’s cool. I’ll. .uh. I’ll walk you to the station?”

“You don’t have to,” Bokuto says quickly. He sits up and pulls down his tank-top to cover himself. “Do you- my shirt, where is it?”

Kuroo finds it balled up on his desk, hands it over to Bokuto, and turns away as he puts it on. Kuroo feels especially grody having slept in his complete outfit from the day before with the knowledge that he definitely hadn’t showered in two days. The insides of his jeans are gross and cling to his legs in the worst way. He doesn’t even want to know how his hair looks (or smells, for that matter). 

When Bokuto is dressed, he drags his feet on his way to the door and leans heavily on the towel rack by the door as he carefully tucks his socked feet into his athletic sandals. He taps each of the pockets.

“You got everything?” Kuroo asks. “Keys, wallet, cell phone?”

“Yeah, just about,” Bokuto replies. He pauses at the door. “Hey, Kuroo?”

“What’s up? You feeling okay?”

Bokuto snorts a small laugh through his nose. “Yeah, I’m okay. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m invincible.” He shakes his head and beckons Kuroo over. “‘C’mere.”

Kuroo can’t deny the jolt of exhilaration that rushes through him as he steps into the tight quarters of the genkan with Bokuto. Nor the relief when Bokuto hugs him tight.

Bokuto says into his shoulder, “I had a lot of fun last night.”

“Yeah, me too. We should meet up again.” It’s easier to talk like this. Also, Bokuto smells way too fucking good for spending a night out, crashing clothed, and sweating for a couple hours.

“Definitely,” Bokuto confirms with an extra squeeze. He loosens his grip, drags his palms down Kuroo’s back until they rest on his hips. He doesn’t lift his head from Kuroo’s shoulder just yet. “We’re. . on the same page here, right?” 

“I think so,” Kuroo whispers. He leans forward and gently pushes Bokuto up against the door. Despite the pounding in his head, he needs this - needs to know if there’s going to be a _next time_ and what the expectations of said next time will be. 

Bokuto’s eyes shine with hope despite the bags underneath. “Good. I mean, great. Awesome.” 

Kuroo kisses him, tasting his sticky lips and morning breath. Kuroo gasps as Bokuto gets his fingers through his belt loops and pulls him closer. He really doesn’t want to say good-bye. He breaks the kiss and sees Bokuto’s eyebrows pinch together.

“How about dinner, tonight?” Kuroo asks hopefully before he really had an opportunity to think it through. He then looks away, mortified. “That’s too sudden, isn’t it? Hah.”

“No, dude, it sounds great,” Bokuto says. “Let’s get dinner. Later though.”

Kuroo grips the handfuls of Bokuto’s shirt he holds tighter. “Okay, yeah. So . . let me at least walk you to the side door.”

“Station’s fine, if you were still up for it.” Bokuto waits for a moment as Kuroo steps back and tugs down the collar of Kuroo’s shirt. “Oh, wow.”

“Huh?” Kuroo checks himself out in the mirror above the towel rack. There’s a massive, speckled red and purple hickey on his chest just below his collarbone. He laughs, the sound of it repulsive to his headache and the shake of it turning his stomach. “Oh, shit. I didn’t think it hurt that much. Damn.” 

Bokuto looks embarrassed. “It doesn’t really show though! It’s not too bad.”

“I’m kinda into it,” Kuroo says, adjusting his shirt collar to cover the bruise with a shrug. He slips on his own shoes. “Let’s go.”

  


The train pulls into the university station just as Suga’s head nods with sleep for the first time. He rushes to his feet and half drags his backpack behind him. The train doors close. He stands on the platform, checking his pockets. He can’t help the feeling that he’s forgetting something. 

A soft voice interrupts his thoughts. “Excuse me?”

Suga notices a young man behind him, offering the thermos Daichi had loaned him. He wears a university library staff lanyard ID around his neck with a photo that really doesn’t showcase his beauty.

“Oh, thank you!” Suga accepts it with his heart hammering in his chest. “Thank you so much.”

The man shakes his head and his wavy curls settle in a new formation across his forehead. “It’s nothing.” He bows his head and walks towards the exit. The heels of his dress boots cross the platform with a soft _clunk, clunk._

Suga ends up following him, drinking from his still-hot coffee with careful sips and taking strides longer than he normally does to keep up. They’re both headed towards campus, but the stranger ducks down a side street instead of the path most-traveled that Suga typically takes. 

The man then hooks a right down a stinky alleyway that seriously makes Suga think twice before holding his breath and braving forward. The smell passes, thank God, and the man stops in front of a vending machine nestled between two entrances to tiny, flowering yards. Suga pretends to stop and check his phone a few paces ahead. He watches him empty his entire coin purse into his hand and start individually counting out the coins with an intense desperation. 

The machine is a bit out of touch with the times. Most of its prices are at or below the hundred yen mark. It also boasts that it served drinks hot and cold, but the leaves haven’t even started to change yet. 

Suga puts his phone away with a frown, finds a 500 yen coin in his pocket, and steps between the man and the vending machine. He pops in the coin and says, “Get whatever you want, it’s on me. As thanks.”

“I couldn’t possibly-” he starts, moving to hide his coins in his hand. 

Suga gives him the smile that comes across as _you’ll be doing as I say and you’ll be doing it gladly_. “I’m fond of the cafe au lait, myself. Please, go ahead. Get two if you want, they’re small.”

The man nods awkwardly. “Ah, thank you. . .” He presses the button for the cafe au lait twice. “I’ll take your recommendation, then.”

“Good choice.” Suga retrieves his change and watches the man slide one can into the pocket of his slacks and pop the other open. “I’m Sugawara, by the way.”

“Akaashi Keiji,” he replies. He raises up his can of coffee briefly. “Thanks again.”

Suga clinks the opening of his thermos against the side of the can with laugh. “To our meeting.” 

They walk back to the main road, drinking in comfortable silence. 

“Sugawara-san,” Akaashi begins, “why were you following me?” 

“I was curious, I suppose. Not too many people my age clean and sober walking the streets at six-thirty on a Sunday,” Suga explains. “Not to mention ones dressed for an office. You’re working at the campus library?”

Akaashi doesn’t give any indication of being convinced or unconvinced at the excuse. “Yes, the library opens at seven during midterms.” 

“You’re work-study?”

“That’s right.” 

Suga recalls the household income requirements to be considered for the work-study program and decides it isn’t the appropriate moment to pry. “So, what’re you studying?”

Akaashi hums and watches his feet as he answers, “I’m still undeclared.”

“Ah, I see,” Sugawara says. “Well, there’s no rush! Figure out what you really want to do.”

There is a dreaminess in the way Akaashi’s eyelids relax half-closed and the morning sunlight catches in his long eyelashes. “I’ve been considering chemistry. . .” 

“That’s amazing. That’s hard stuff too. My roommate is into that-” He gestures vaguely. “-sphere of thought.” 

“So is mine,” Akaashi replies with a soft fondness. “He’s the really amazing one. I’m just skating by.” 

Suga playfully claps Akaashi on the shoulder. “Don’t put yourself down! I’m sure you can hold your own in the lab just fine!” 

To his surprise, Akaashi gives a small laugh and swirls the remaining coffee in the can. “You really have a lot of energy this early in the morning, Sugawara-san.” 

“I’ve had coffee in me for an hour at this point,” Suga explains before narrowing his eyes. “What’s that look? Do I remind you of someone?”

“Yes,” Akaashi states simply. He does not elaborate.

 

Ten minutes later, Suga bids Akaashi a good day outside the dorm building. He makes his way inside and is stopped in the hallway by his tall, nosy RA.

“Sugawara Koushi,” Tooru starts, tone dark and foreboding. He points out towards the front of the building. “That pretty boy is most certainly _not_ Sawamura Daichi.” 

“No,” Suga agrees, casting an intentionally lovelorn look over his shoulder, “but he certainly is pretty.” 

Tooru gasps. “Don’t tell me. Does that mean Daichi’s back on the market?”

“Oh, Tooru. Do you not even think about what would befall you if you even laid one chewed up fingertip on him?” Suga asks cheerfully. 

But how many times could he deny Daichi’s advances before he seeks such relief elsewhere? 

Tooru hides both his hands into the center pouch of his hoodie with a pout. “You always go for the throat.”

“It’s why you like me,” Suga says. “Anyway, I have to grab my instrument and queue up for a practice room.”

“Mind if I’m conveniently behind you when you open up the door on your roommate and his _overnight guest_?” Tooru requests, voice dripping with innuendo. 

Suga tries his best to conceal the surprise from his face. Three years and never once had his roommate requested the room for such activities. He figured that Kuroo just wasn’t into dating. Kuroo had met Daichi once or twice and had plenty of opportunities to share about his love life. It wasn’t Suga’s proudest moment when he breezed through Kuroo’s internet history as a traitorous first year to figure out his orientation, but even then, the results had been inconclusive. And now Oikawa Tooru suddenly had the upper hand on him, the bastard.

“Has it really been that long, Tooru?” Suga says with pity. “I could probably set you up with someone or suggest an application for you to use. ”

The only reaction Tooru gives is a minute twitch of his eyebrow. “Now now, Koushi. I assure you that there’s been no trouble in that department, but Tetsurou though? This has got to be the first time _ever_. I almost feel bad to trying to ruin it.” 

Suga lowers his voice as they enter their hallway. “You’re one to talk about ruined, didn’t you say her eight year old sister walked in on you two your first time and the condom broke?”

“If you think you can publicly embarrass me with that many regaled tale of woe to reap the satisfaction of catching Tetsurou dick-deep inside the poster boy for leg day without me, you’re sorely mistaken,” Tooru replies without missing a beat.

“So vulgar.” Suga reels inside about how Kuroo might have a boyfriend and decided not to share that information with him. Of course, he doesn’t have to, but still. “I’m hoping to pop in mid-afterglow and watch the post-coital bliss freeze over.”

“Part of me wants to put the rock back down over you and never peek under it again, but then life in this hallway would get awfully boring.”

Suga has his key in his hand with his ears sensitive to particular sounds like groans, repetitive spring squeakings, or headboard thunkings. He checks to make sure that Tooru doesn’t have his phone at the ready and almost feels ashamed at the idea of it. He turns the key in the lock and swings the door open quickly, ready to fake an apology.

There isn’t anyone home.

“Ugh, that was fast,” Tooru complains. “What a let-down.” 

“No kidding,” Suga says. He feels a twinge of remorse at how excited he’d been. He steps out of his shoes and checks the trash bin beside Kuroo’s desk. “Huh, no tissues or condom wrapper.” 

Tooru pokes his head in the room. “The bed’s not made. Doesn’t smell like anything happened in here.”

It doesn’t, but Suga wants to maintain that he wouldn’t have used _sniffing the air_ as one of his diagnostic tools. “Oh well.” He shoos Tooru away with one hand. “Get back to your desk before another pervert gets in.” 

“‘Another’ referring to you or me?”

Suga smirked. “Both, of course. Now, go.”

“You know I like it when you tell me what to do,” Tooru replies. He gives a peace sign on his way out the door. “I’ll be back later.”

Suga shrugs off his backpack with a sigh and kicks off his shoes. He stuffs everything into his messy closet and closes the curtain over the mess. He yawns, jaw popping. His bed, lofted over his desk, smothered in a thick comforter, pillows, and throw blankets beckons. No one's ever in the music building until 8 anyway. He sets an alarm for a half an hour and climbs up into his bed. Just a quick power nap. The coffee'll still be hot when he gets up. He burrows under the blankets and hides his face under a pillow, enveloped in warmth and darkness. 

The lock on the door clicks open.

 

Much to Kuroo’s relief, he opens the door to immediately see his cell phone waiting patiently for him on his dresser. He kicks off his sandals and rushes across the room. The notification indicator light flashes and he hurries to unlock his phone and check his messages. 

There's one from Bokuto.

_Thanks for walking me! Call me when you wake up to talk about dinner later. Maybe we can meet up at my place this time ;)_

Kuroo swallows heavily, the implications of phrases like _your place_ and _my place_ too strong. He types back, beginning and erasing his response three times before hitting enter.

**Will do. Sounds good.**

That’s fine, right? He doesn’t want to come across as too eager, but he seriously doesn’t want to stay cool and aloof. God, he’s twenty-one years old! Shouldn’t he be past this? 

He pulls down the collar of his shirt and checks out the hickey Bokuto had left him. With a sigh, he undresses down to his boxers and tosses his clothes into the vague pile of laundry gathered under his bed. His bare feet slap against the tile as he double checks that the door is lock locked. He then gives the handle on the blinds an extra twist to make sure they are as closed as can be.

Kuroo lays back on his bed and pulls a thin sheet over himself. He sees the cello case still sitting there, waiting for Suga to come back from the neighboring prefecture. He must have overslept, somehow. Kuroo’s just glad that he hadn’t been home when Bokuto came over.

He sighs and presses his fingers into the bruise on his chest. The twinge of pain reminds him of the teeth abusing that skin and Bokuto breathing heavily against his neck. God, they’re going on a date later, at his place! A restlessness consumes him. He turns on his side facing the other side of the room. He closes his eyes and runs a hand down the front of his underwear.

While it certainly isn’t the first time Kuroo has a real life person for _inspiration_ , this is one of the rare instances when Kuroo has been allowed to touch or kiss said inspiration, and that’s pretty damn exciting. He can imagine real heated whispers of his name said by Bokuto, or the feeling of him getting hard against Kuroo’s leg while they kissed, or the more unclothed than usual body sleeping in his bed.

Fuck, someone besides him slept in his bed and is probably going to do it again. He thinks about Bokuto getting home, climbing into bed, and thinking about Kuroo the same way. Imagines him exposed and arching up into his hand. Kuroo slides his hand into his underwear and stroked himself in time with the Bokuto in his fantasy.

The images blur and the timeline skews. There’s a few moments of a man coming on his own chest and groaning as he jerks himself through his orgasm. Then, another sinking himself down onto a vibrating dildo with a sigh of relief which becomes Bokuto's moan as he slowly rides Kuroo.

Kuroo clenches his eyes shut, bites his lower lip, and covers his mouth with his hand.

And then he hears his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sleepy. 
> 
> thank you for reading!


	4. An Outlier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suga learns that he's much more into watching than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no excuse. this scene is what i wanted to write.
> 
> i don't think that's _really_ "breath-play" but I'll put that word here and let you decide if that's something you'd rather avoid regardless

“Kuroo,” Suga says, at last. Well, he’s certainly awake now. Some dark part of him cries out in agony that he was giving himself away. There really isn’t a better way out of this and he had listened for way too long to not know exactly what’s going on.

There’s a gasp and then heavy silence. Suga can’t see Kuroo from under his bedding, but he can imagine the shock and disbelief on his face.

“I’m here, Kuroo,” Suga repeats lamely. He sits up and catches Kuroo pulling the sheet over his head and turning to face the wall. He doesn’t know what possessed him to say it, but he adds, “Don’t be embarrassed.”

“Suga, please pretend I’m asleep and go to practice.” 

 

“But you’re not asleep.”

Kuroo is beyond humiliated. This is it, the worst moment of his life, though, admittedly, getting rejected by his best friend had been pretty traumatic too. He feels heat from the top of his head, down to the very tips of his fingers. That isn’t even the worst part of it- he shudders with arousal under his sheet at the sound of Suga’s voice. It’s everything he can do to not roll onto his stomach just to feel something against his dick.

“Are you getting something out of this? Please save your ridicule competition for Oikawa.”

There’s a rustle of blankets and soft footsteps. Closer, Suga’s voice rings like a challenge. “And if I am?”

“What are you talking about?” Kuroo whispers. He covers his length with his palm and resists the urge to roll his hips.

“You don’t have to stop,” he says. 

Part of Kuroo wants to give into Suga’s reassurance instantly. He uncovers his face, escaping from the confines of the sheet for air, wanting to be seen. Another part of him is certain he’s being toyed with as Suga waits for him to show another inch of vulnerability. He rolls back onto his other side.

Suga stands by his bedside, looking down at him with flushed cheeks and a steady gaze. He has his hands in his pockets and his teeth digging into his lower lip. 

“You look. .” Kuroo doesn’t exactly know how to describe it, but having seen that very same look in someone else’s eyes gave him an idea. “ . .like you want to help.”

“I’d prefer not to, actually,” Suga replied before changing the subject. “Tell me about him.”

“Him?” Kuroo repeats, his mind conjuring an image of Bokuto eagerly and he presses against his hand.

Suga keeps his eye contact and speaks lightly. “That’s right, ‘him.’ I heard a ‘Kou,’ but certainly that wasn’t referring to me.”

“Koutarou,” Kuroo finishes, rolling his hips again and fighting to keep his gaze on Suga’s face. “Bokuto Koutarou- he’s, he’s in my major.”

“Yeah? Tell me more.” Suga’s hands rustle in his pockets. He then withdraws one and places it on the corner of the sheet covering Kuroo.

Sweat gathers on his brow. He pushes down his underwear with one hand and shimmies them down his thighs and out of the way. He uses his thumb to smear the precum oozing from the tip across the head.

“He’s.. he’s my height.” Kuroo is afraid to blink. “He’s on track to graduate with the highest GPA in the department.”

Suga starts to slide the sheet away from his face, slowly exposing his chest and arms, watching his face all the way. His eyes are eager and curious like he’s opening to the first page of a novel instead of watching Kuroo come apart. 

“That’s what you’re thinking about to get off?” Suga says, like it’s an old joke between them. Like this isn’t already the weirdest experience of Kuroo’s short life and they make light of each other’s sex lives on the regular. “No point in modesty anymore, Kuroo. He left that mark on you?”

“Yeah, hah,” Kuroo confirms. “In the karaoke room, with his teeth. His hands pulling aside my shirt. I thought it was going to rip. I wish it had.”

Suga stops tugging on the sheet right as the the cool air of the room reaches the hand covering the head of Kuroo’s dick. He raises an eyebrow in a silent question, frozen in place, chest still as he holds his breath.

The air between them vibrates at a new frequency, warming it and thickening it. Kuroo finally gives in and thrusts into his own fist. He bares his teeth in stuttering inhale. At the sight of Suga, fully clothed, completely in control of himself, and waiting for Kuroo to indicate what happens next, he feels a swell of pride, of agency.

Kuroo watches Suga lean his head back and tremble as he fights the urge to breathe. The sheet lightly quivers in Suga’s grip, less than a breeze away from sliding down his thigh and showing it all. 

Suga lets out a tiny exhale, removes his other hand from his pocket, and takes a fistful of fitted sheet right beside Kuroo’s face. 

And Kuroo finds the courage to smile up.

 

“Does Sawamura ever get rough with you, Suga?” 

Suga coughs and loses the air trapped in his lungs. His chest hurts. He takes even breaths through his nose before he answers, “I wish. Daichi would never ‘endanger’ me or risk hurting me. He’s careful, always asking for reassurance, a romantic who lights candles and gives oil massages.”

“Is this not _romantic_ enough for you?” Kuroo taunts. The air of his words ghosts by Suga’s white knuckles where he’s latched onto the sheet. “Do you need reassurance to pull the sheet aside to watch me. . watch me selfishly take care of myself while thinking of someone else?” 

“It would certainly be nice,” Suga replies, thoughts drifting. Red marks covering Suga’s throat. Daichi’s voice sharp with anger. Fast, hard slaps of their skin colliding. Leaving Suga to finish himself off as he goes to shower. Daichi pushing through Suga’s gag reflex and laughing at his tears. Anything but the one-trick pony of compassionate, slow lovemaking Suga can’t even get himself excited for anymore.

Kuroo interrupts his thoughts. “Suga, keep holding your breath. Hold it until I say so.”

Suga takes a knee, eye-to-eye with Kuroo, and makes a show of taking a deep gulp of air and smiling with his lips tucked behind his teeth. It’s easy for twenty, thirty seconds before his mind gets envious of Kuroo’s quiet pants. His lungs fight for more air on their own and gain nothing from Suga’s sealed mouth. He feels his heartbeat grow louder and slower. His nose inhales sips of air until there’s no room left his lungs for excess. His head becomes light and his mouth opens and shuts, making the shape of the first sound in “please.”

“Breathe.”

Suga empties his lungs hard and fast. The tension in his chest and shoulders leave him and his head clears. It’d be so easy, so fast. His pants could be unbuttoned, unzipped, and left on the floor. Suga knows his body well, when to give or take, where it’s too sensitive until it’s not anymore as a result of routinely experimenting daily for the past seven or so years of his life.

And in less than five minutes, Kuroo is figuring him out.

“Take off the sheet,” Kuroo says next. There’s a dark red blush from his ears down to the hickey on his chest. His eyes close for a long moment and he slows the frequency of his strokes, but not their speed. ‘Or you’ll. . you’ll miss it.”

“Don’t stop.” Suga rips the sheet away and leaves it on the floor. His face is hot with shame, attraction, _guilt_ , but he can’t look away. 

 

The elastic band of his underwear keeps Kuroo’s knees together and reinforces the notion that he can’t run away. There’s no escape from Suga, breathless and greedy with his tongue wetting his lips and his eyes refusing to blink. Nor from the inevitable _building_ making his body tense in every limb. His shoulders roll. His toes curl. And Suga is right there with him, hands shaking and eyebrows crushing together. Wearing a smile that hurts like a wince.

Something is lost when Kuroo doesn’t let his eyes roll back into the bursting white-light of orgasm. He isn’t struck boneless and heroin euphoric, but remains tethered to earth, caught in the net that is Suga’s attention. He relaxes his grip on his pulsing, softening dick. His skin release a wave of cool perspiration in one coordinated wave and drips travel down the backs of his thighs. 

Suga lets go of the sheets and whispers, “Oh, god.”

Speaking has suddenly become remarkably unappealing. He should close his eyes and pretend this is a freaky dream. He isn’t even sure if it would constitute as his freakiest dream, if he’s being honest. He tucks both his hands between his face and the sheets. Again, Kuroo faces a situation with which he has zero experience nor hint of how to behave. 

Kuroo briefly gets a second wind as Suga abruptly sticks his hand down the front of his pants, but then he recognizes how Suga pulls his dick up into the waistband of his boxers and takes his hand back out. 

Suga goes over to his desk takes tissues for the box on the corner. He leaves a handful on the bed in front of Kuroo’s face and uses the others to start wiping up the mess on the sheets.

Kuroo reaches out a hand to stop him and Suga dodges it with a _look_ that Kuroo doesn’t quite understand, but makes him feel ignorant all the same.

“ _This_ is where you draw the line?” Suga asks, showing teeth with his smile as he laughs and shakes his head. “Once you’ve done it for someone else, it gets infinitely less weird, trust me.”

“Gross,” Kuroo replies. He doesn’t even like cleaning himself up, really. That’s why this stuff is left for the shower. He takes his collection of tissues, sits up, and dabs away the come clinging to the head of his dick before giving a few tugs to clear it out the excess.

“Be sure to tell that to _Koutarou_ after he swallows,” Suga states, tossing the bunched up tissues into the trash.

Bokuto. The man Kuroo has a date with _later that day_. Kuroo dumps his tissues and buries his face in his hands. “Fuck.” The remorse rots a hole through his stomach. “I can’t believe I did that.”

 

“Kuroo, it’s going to be fine. I’m not worried about it.”

Suga is terrified. His definition of the verb “to cheat” grows fuzzier and more condemning by the second. He hasn’t even _touched_ Kuroo - it was more or less like watching porn, something that both Suga and Daichi have talked about doing before. But only, porn typically isn’t a private show with direct communication unless it cost more money than either of them were willing to pay to get off. He imagines how poorly their conversation is going to go. 

Because he has to tell Daichi. Full disclosure is the cornerstone of their relationship. They’ve discussed opening their relationship if only to fulfill curiosities outside the sphere of them losing their virginities to each other. But, then again, Suga had been the one with the most counterpoints to this argument.

Kuroo actually looks pretty convinced. He yanks his underwear on and lays back down. He gives Suga a puzzled side-eye until he pieces together an important question.

“This doesn’t mean anything, right?”

Suga gives a theatrical sniff and wipes a fake tear from his eye. “Are you saying that I mean _nothing_ to you?

“Mm, yeah,” Kuroo answers. “Like, there’s nothing wrong with you. Just. . isn’t there.”

While Suga knows that, he’s certain that there are more diplomatic phrases than _there’s nothing wrong with you_. It might actually attach itself to his self-image for an indeterminate amount of time.

“Ouch, but likewise,” he replies. “I figure, after three years, what would’ve happened, would’ve happened, you know?” 

Kuroo is very obviously falling asleep. “Mhmm. Today’s an outlier.”


	5. Normal Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suga talks to Kiyoko about what happened. Kuroo goes on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the day is still young

His stand partner notices something is up the moment Suga arrives to rehearsal, but waits politely for the entire three hour session without commenting. Shimizu Kiyoko, first chair in the cello section, wears a patchwork hand sewn cello blanket. Its cuteness, with pastel flowers and cartoonish animal faces, contrasts sharply with her clear-cut classic beauty. Long dark hair spills down her back. Glasses frame big eyes and tender divinity. Her voice, soft and purposeful, gives no modicum of remorse or compromise as it leaves her.

“What’s wrong, Suga?” she asks. She rolls a pencil between her fingers.

Suga doesn’t often sigh about life or frustrations. He greatly prefers to vent - which Kiyoko is cognizant of, but he fears that they have not reached a level of emotional intimacy to comfortably discuss this issue. He isn’t quite sure if he has any outlets for such conversation besides Daichi. Hence the sigh.

Kiyoko hums thoughtfully, as though processing the sigh as useful input. 

There’s a beat of silence between them that settles over the sounds of chairs and music stands scraping across the tiled floors, idle chatter of voices, sporadic pizzicato, and ruffling pages. The conductor stores her scores and patiently listens to the question of the insecure freshman concertmaster. All the violists are gone. 

“Something weird happened this morning,” Suga admits at last. The words make the event less ephemeral, more real. More likely to occur again.

She nods and starts to pack up her things. She carefully lifts her cello from her endpin stopper. “Grab a coffee with me, we’ll discuss?” 

“Sounds good.” 

The taste of Daichi’s coffee still clings to the back of his tongue. 

 

Kiyoko walks beside him with a gentle magnetism that draws in absent gazes and appreciative glances. Her blue skirt rests below her knees and her black ballet flats silently carry her down the sidewalk.

Suga always feels out of his depth listening to Kiyoko’s soft voice and lingering in her patient aura. He becomes too aware of the spot of scruff he’d been forced to leave on his neck due to a spot of red, angry acne. His favorite straight cut jeans with wisps of fraying threads along the hem feel old and unfashionable. The dark spot beside his eye is just a mole.

At least, compared to the cute beauty mark Kiyoko unintentionally traces over as she taps the side of her face in thought. “Did you have a place in mind?”

“The usual’s fine,” Suga replies quickly. He’s about to sigh again and catches himself. He runs his fingers up through his hair and puts on a smile. “What did I do to deserve a friend like you?”

Kiyoko give a small laugh. “I suppose I could ask you the same question.”

The coffee shop is a familiar chain with a bright orange interior and pristine white tables. There’s a milk steamer going as they enter. The wall behind the counter is painted so that the employees can write the specials out in chalk. Some guests are studying and others are doing anything but while their textbooks take up all their space. One couple sits, taking turns tasting each other’s drinks and making inside jokes.

Kiyoko claims the corner table while Suga places their order. He contemplates the _too much information_ boundaries of the story. He’s handed his second coffee of the day in a wide mug on a patterned saucer with a delightful leaf in the foam. He thanks and compliments the barista, who immediately reddens and looks down at the counter.

With an ounce of his confidence restored, he carries the drinks over to the table and sits with his legs crossed.

Kiyoko takes a sip and watches him expectantly.

“Do you want me to keep this conversation PG-13 or can it get as true to life as necessary?” Suga asks.

Kiyoko places her cup back down onto the saucer calmly and folds her hands in her lap. “I’m prepared for the truth.”

 

Around noon, Kuroo can’t keep his eyes closed any longer. He is acutely aware of his unbrushed teeth, his oily face, and the stickiness clinging to him like morning dew. It doesn’t help that, as his hangover fades, his hunger increases twofold. As riveting as laying in bed and turning the past twelve hours over in his head is, he really needs to get up.

There’s a twinge of joy at seeing the notification light blinking on his phone before it’s swallowed whole by dread. The message is from Suga.

_Won’t be home tonight! See you tomorrow :D_

It almost pisses Kuroo off how painfully normal and chipper the message is. Like, he can get trying to play it off like nothing _immeasurably weird_ happened, but this is really pushing the envelope. He replies with a toneless affirmative and rereads his brief conversation with Bokuto from earlier.

He has to call Bokuto and say. . what, exactly? Kuroo groans and presses his face into the screen of his phone. He weighs the cons of not calling Bokuto back at all and a vivid image of Bokuto’s disappointment as he checks his phone for the last time before going to bed threatens to haunt Kuroo until his dying day.

The phone dials and rings once before it’s answered.

“--eeeyy! Morning Kuroo!” Kuroo pulls the phone away from his ear in surprise. The room fills with earnest light.

“Mornin’.”

“Didya sleep well?” The amount of echo in his voice fluctuates as he paces through different rooms in a small apartment.

“Well enough.” Kuroo can’t stop himself from smiling. His eyes squint. “How was your trip home? You rest enough?”

“Yeah, it’s all good. I fell asleep like, instantly.” Bokuto slides open a door. Birds and traffic sounds leak into the conversation. A heavy breath is followed by a thoughtful noise.

“What’s up?” Kuroo prompts. 

Even before he receives his answer, Kuroo decides that he is not going to tell Bokuto about what happened. It’ll stay hidden in his memory, away from other prying eyes, to fade like a bruise. He smooths out the wrinkles on part of his sheet that had been fisted and pulls his blanket over the small, inconspicuous stain. 

“Dunno.” Bokuto’s voice is smaller than it had any right to be. “Miss you.”

Kuroo swallows his dry laugh and knee-jerk reaction of ‘Already?’ A cool loneliness washes over him. His room has no scent. The neighbors are quiet, or gone. All of his input comes directly from this call, from the gentle breathing to the doppler effect of passing cars. He closes his eyes and sees the red of staring directly at the sun.

He doesn’t deserve to speak any louder. “Miss you too.”

 

Suga doesn’t quite see what is so amusing about the situation to warrant Kiyoko’s giggling as she hides behind a napkin with reddening cheeks. He makes a point to illustrate his discontent with an exaggerated frown and stern crossing of his arms. 

“I’m sorry, it’s just-” Kiyoko takes a deep breath, lets it go. “I don’t know what I expected, but that wasn’t it?”

“Well, apologies for not meeting expectations,” Suga quips. Though, as the initial sting fades, he does consider how the situation could very easily be retold in a more humorous way, should certain details be omitted. And, of course, Kiyoko’s laughter is clinically proven to have healing properties on the mind and spirit. 

“Why didn’t you say anything when he first got to the room?” she asks.

“Well, uh, you see. .” Suga traces his finger around the brim of his coffee cup and squints down into the remnants of latte art. He marks this down as one of the least effective forms of divination before replying, “I can’t say.”

“I see.” 

“I can feel your judgment from here, Shimizu-san.” 

Suga loves making her smile. Which she is, as she wipes the steam from her glasses with her lens cloth, eyes crinkled at the corners. He couldn’t help but make the story lighter - retelling certain lines with vastly different inflections and implications. There’s also a possibility that, in months or years, this story will boil down into a two-liner to be shared over beers as university nostalgia. 

Then, she asks, “Do you like him?”

“No?” Suga offers a shrug. “I mean, I like him just fine. He’s a good roommate and friend. It’s never even occurred to me that he could be anything more than that.”

“Hm.” 

“You’re not convinced,” he states.

She shakes her head. “That’s not quite. . it. Sometimes . .” Her voices grows quieter, her cheeks flush brighter. “It feels nice. To feel wanted by someone new.”

“You’re not wrong.”

He thinks about how many times he’s vaguely referred to Daichi as “his best friend” or “his friend from high school” to strangers and acquaintances. The reasons behind why he does this are layered and more complicated than this point, but he has intentionally concealed his relationship status from people who may be attracted to him. Kuroo has never been one of those people. 

“So, what should I do?” 

“I don’t know,” Kiyoko says.

Suga groans into his coffee. “And here I was thinking that you had all the answers.”

“There aren’t any answers.” 

It'd be too easy, if there were.

 

Kuroo checks his reflection in the glass door and deliberately fingercombs his hair down and back without success. He’s showered, at least, and has clothes on that were folded and put away before he wore them. How is one supposed to dress to pick up his date from the _library_?

As the clock on his phone ticks to two minutes before their scheduled meeting time, he pulls open the doors. He flashes his student ID to the school safety agent posted at the welcome desk and eases through the stolen book detectors. 

Library or no, Bokuto Koutarou’s voice rings through the still, studious air. He leans over the research assistance counter in skinny jeans and a soft-looking sweater over a white collared shirt. How distinctly un-Bokuto. The fashion choices oddly mirror those of the one pointedly avoiding eye contact and pretending to inspect the identification code of the musty tome in his hands.

Bokuto gestures with both hands to indicate a size. “The mound of fries I got with Kuroo last night must have been this big. I feel like I’ve never had a meal so satisfying in my entire life. Kuroo took real good care of me.”

Kuroo blushes deeply at the idea of _taking real good care of_ Bokuto and shakes his head clear of the thought. He allows himself to enjoy the rare view presented by these once in a blue moon jeans. Perhaps he could slide a hand into the back pocket of them sometime tonight.

The reply of Akaashi’s dry voice yanks Kuroo back down to Earth. “Well, I’m glad you’re safe. I should thank him when he arrives.”

“No need!” Bokuto exclaims. “I already got my thank-you all planned out, thanks to your help, of course.”

“It’s just a sweater,” Akaashi replies softly. He stuffs the book on the shelf behind him.

Bokuto looks down at it with a thoughtful hum. He stretches the fabric out from his stomach and rubs the softness between his fingers. “It’s an awful nice sweater, though. You’re sure it’s not too small, right?”

Akaashi turns and rests his hands on Bokuto’s shoulders, looking him squarely in the eyes. “I’m sure. You look perfect.” He takes a moment of smooth out the sweater with his long, careful fingers.

Kuroo watches with furrowed brows, resistance to intrude upon their intimacy interrupting his heart rate. Akaashi’s tone and expression are _doting_. Kuroo waits in a mist of jealousy, wanting to have his own moment with Bokuto, not disturb someone else’s.

“Akaashi, thank you again! You’re the best.”

“Um, Bokuto-san,” he says, reluctantly seeing past Bokuto, “Kuroo’s here.”

Bokuto whirls around, smile stretching and eyebrows raising. His voice is still loud and strong, but it only carries to Kuroo and no farther. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Kuroo replies. He’s not entirely sure how he’s allowed to greet him. A flickering series of ideas passes through with varied results. God, no. Not the handshake. The hug doesn’t seem too bad - maybe some of Bokuto’s freshly applied body spray with rub off onto him and he’ll have Bokuto smell all day. Which is not creepy at all. Full on PDA with a quick kiss delivers an image of Akaashi politely, yet viciously, banning them both from the library until further notice.

But Bokuto steps forward and takes Kuroo's hand. He strokes the back of his hand with a thumb running over the blood vessels and metacarpals, tickling the fine hairs. There’s a heat generating that Kuroo cannot decipher the origin of. It's either his cheeks or the softness in Bokuto’s eyes.

“I’m really happy to see you,” Bokuto says.

Kuroo looks away. He catches the plain carpet of the library floor, the sheen of the wood holding up the counter, and the way Akaashi’s lips, crushed by his teeth, form a thin line as he returns to work. Kuroo swallows, but his mouth is dry and the creeping guilt settles thick and unmoving in his throat. He squeezes Bokuto’s hand before letting them fall apart.

“Yeah, you too.” Kuroo manages to make eye contact again.

Bokuto lets out a breath undecided between an airy laugh and a contented sigh. “You’re blushing like crazy.”

“Yeah, well-” Kuroo gives Bokuto a lighthearted shove. “-give me some warning before you do cute stuff like that.”

“No problem! I can do that.” Bokuto stands a little straighter and holds his chin up high. “Anyway. Right.”

Bokuto yells a good-bye to Akaashi. Akaashi returns it with a wave, keeping his focus on whatever book he’s holding and obviously not reading or receiving any information from.

The heater kicks on with a low rumble, spewing a whiff of dust in the library air.

 

The restaurant is small and crowded. The counter is glossy with a scattering of cups holding chopsticks and various sauce containers. When the swinging doors to kitchen open, the air carries the scents of garlic, fryers, and soy sauce into the dining area. Tall stools line the counter and Kuroo and Bokuto sit with their knees and elbows rubbing, squeezed into the corner of the bar. 

Not that Kuroo minds. 

The sweater Bokuto is wearing is lovely and soft. He worries for its safety as Bokuto takes a hearty slurp of noodles, spraying droplets of broth back into the bowl. There’s no doubt to the quality of the food, according to Bokuto’s pleased face and hum approving of the decadence. 

Kuroo finds himself watching Bokuto’s hands as he eats and talks, their movements smooth and unrestrained despite the lack of space. He’d be truly entranced if not for the subject matter of their conversation.

“Mhmm.” Bokuto is saying in response to Kuroo’s only politely asked question before he finishes his mouthful. “Akaashi and I met in high school and have been best buds ever since. He’s like super hardworking and smart and stuff so I wasn’t really surprised that he was accepted to our university.” 

“Oh yeah?” Kuroo dips a piece of fried chicken in sauce and takes a bite to escape asking another question.

“I’m pretty glad that he came here. My first year was a bit of a disaster,” Bokuto explains. He rests his chopsticks. “My grades were fine and all, but I was like, so stressed about it all. Like it was suddenly all on me, for everything.”

“I get that.”

Kuroo had spent the majority of his first year oversleeping and calling his best friend from home every time he had to walk somewhere by himself. He and Suga lived in an unorganized chaos drenched in mild body odor and littered with unpaired socks and fast food wrappers. He actually had to study beyond completing his homework assignments and realized that he was shit at note-taking. 

“In a way, it kind of was, you know?” Bokuto says. 

“It’s the first time that we’d ever had full responsibility for our own actions. No one’s there to make you go to class or get anything done,” Kuroo agrees. 

“But like first year, I just kept slipping up and it would hit me like I’d fallen off the edge of the world.” Bokuto makes a wide swipe depicting his descent off said edge and his fingertips skim Kuroo’s arm on their way by. “It’d be like, little stuff, like bombing a quiz or forgetting to get my clothes out of the washer and into the dryer and I’d just be done. I’d sit at home and just be sad.”

Kuroo knows how that feels and he desperately wants to share his own experiences with failure and misery, but decides that he’s content with listening. He remembers the first time he’d failed - some written response in some class for some professor he can't even remember. He had moped until Suga threw a handful of Kuroo’s gross clothes at him and told him to take a fucking shower.

“But it got better?”

Bokuto nods, staring into his soup. “It’s weird. Thinking about how much another person’s presence can change your whole outlook on life. When Akaashi moved in with me, I felt like I had to be a good role model for him. Whether it was trying not to be as much of a slob because I was only sharing the space or healthily venting my frustrations on the regular instead of waiting for myself to like, boil over.”

Kuroo and Suga definitely listened to each other bitch. He can’t count the amount of times he’d come home in a mood and seen Suga immediately place his bookmark in his textbook, place it aside, and wait for the rant with the patience of a man ready to be paid to do so. 

“It’s just really great having him around,” Bokuto finishes. He twists noodles into his soup spoon with an absent look, the gusto he had been eating with before now tempered with contemplation. 

There’s a round of thanks and good-byes as a group of friends vacates a row of pushed together tables. Chairs screech as they drag across the tiled floor and coins clatter against the trays that hold the bills. The little bell on the door rings as people file out. The cacophony of the crowd dissipates and leaves discretely discernible conversations lingering in the room. Some voices, aware of the absence of static, lower for privacy.

A busboy hurriedly collects the emptied dishes, balancing the whole party’s collection on one tray and carrying it away with practiced ease. An older woman pops open the register and starts counting the money inside with small, nimble fingers, occasionally pausing to moisten her fingertips. Unseen in the kitchen, something begins to bubble furiously in hot oil and another something is being chopped.

It’s awkward to see Bokuto not eat. Kuroo considers what to say to change the weird mood settling over them. After running a few simulations, he decides on, “You know, I bet Akaashi feels the same way.”

Bokuto startles, like he’d fallen asleep silently twirling his noodles, and beams hopefully at Kuroo. “You think so?”

“Dude,” Kuroo starts, holding back a sigh of relief as Bokuto resumes his slurping, “you’re a great role model. You’re kind. You’re brilliant. You motivate everyone around you.”

Bokuto washes down his mouthful with a sip of water, looking a little pink around the ears, but that might be a trick of the light. He sets the cup down firmly. “Well, of course I am! I’m a good friend.”

Kuroo risks sliding his hand onto Bokuto’s knee under the counter, takes the neutrally quirked eyebrow he receives as permission, and quietly says, “You’re more than that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finals are hard. if you have finals, I hope yours go well.


	6. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suga visits Daichi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you've been thinking that there's been more Kuroo and than Suga. . well, you're right, but not for long.

The subway station’s much busier in the mid-afternoon. High schoolers fundraise for something or another by shouting at passersby to donate to their cause and bow at the waist. A young pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses in muted suits silently offer pamphlets in various languages with patient smiles. Tourists gather in gaggles, taking pictures of the subway station sign or carrying giant backpacks. The glass doors to the post office ATM chime as people make their way through.

Suga weaves around the pockets of people and stops just before the turnstile. He opens LINE and scrolls to Daichi’s contact. Winces at the sight of his own face pressed against Daichi’s in his profile picture. 

Daichi picks up right away. “Hey. How was practice?”

“Shit,” Suga hisses. There isn’t enough money on his subway card to go through the turnstile. He stomps his foot. 

“That bad, huh?” Daichi’s sounding way too amused.

“Yeah, no. Practice was fine, got coffee with Shimizu after.” Suga tucks his phone between his face and shoulder, fishes a thousand yen bill out of his wallet, and feeds it into the machine.

“I just imagined you and her wearing your instruments like backpacks in Starbucks,” Daichi muses. “Spilling lattes onto Macbooks, ruining screenplays in your wake.”

Suga finds himself smiling despite the bill being spit out the machine for the second time in a row. “Well, we dropped them off in her room on the way there, but I like your version better.”

“Oh, you need a cello to knock stuff over, now?”

“Daichi! I’m not _that_ clumsy.” He finally has his card charged and makes it onto the train platform. The display shows the next train arriving in four minutes.

He’s holding back laughter now, judging by the little huffs into the receiver. “I wasn’t implying that it was accidental.”

“Oh, well then, touché.” Suga walks down the platform towards the south end, knowing his eventual transfer’s exit will be there. “I have been known to be aggressive.”

Daichi hums in agreement. “And I love you for it. When do you think I’ll be able to see you again?”

“Uh, sooner than you think,” Suga replies. “I’m on my way back.”

“Wait, what?” Daichi sputters, voice cracking. “Did something happen?”

“. .Yeah,” he says sadly. He corrects his tone and adds, “But like, nothing too serious, okay? Don’t worry and we’ll talk about it when I get there, okay?”

“Okay?” Not that Daichi has much choice in the matter. Concern oozes. “Are you sure you’re--”

“Daichi, I’m fine,” Suga answers firmly, the next words spilling out before he can consider their gravity. “We just need to talk.”

A small, “Oh.”

Suga lets his face fall into his open hand. Shit. “That’s-, that’s not what I-, I’m sorry.”

A train is approaching on the opposite track, the roar of it charging down the tunnel deafening. The station sings its tune over the noise. The departures sign flashes and passengers naturally lineup alongside the entranceway lines painted on the platform floor. The train slows to a stop and its door open with a looping reminder of the train’s destination and to mind the gap between the train and the platform.

Daichi asks, “Is that your train?”

Suga wishes it was. “No, but it’s coming soon.”

“See you soon then, love you.”

The call ends before Suga has a chance to reply.

 

The train rocks as it takes a slow curve. Suga is leaning against the door and balancing with his palm pressed against the ceiling. A domino-effect of hushed apologies sweeps the train car with each jostling of its occupants. An older, hunched businessman with his tie elaborately and widely knotted steps on Suga’s foot again. Suga bears it with a blank face and neutral smile. 

At the next station, the doors open and people exit in droves. The benches clear and the handhold rings swing and dangle in the emptied space. Daichi’s stop is next. 

Suga doesn’t expect this to be easy. He’s been trying to predict how Daichi is going to react and his series of daydreams haven’t really been going in his favor. He loves Daichi so much and he’s almost sure that Daichi isn’t going to give up on him so easily. Almost.

To imagine five and a half years of trust and security crumbling apart in less than a day, Suga shakes his head. It hasn’t been a perfect relationship. They’ve exchanged words about Suga going out drinking and forgetting to text back until the following night. Or not spoken to each other for a few hours over conflicting family New Year’s plans. 

The shopping mall and expensive apartment buildings surrounding Daichi’s station come into view. Suga massages the back of his neck, trying to soothe the ache at the base of his skull. There’s an unpleasant taste lingering on the back of his tongue. He checks the thermos in his bag, but it’s empty. He stands, reads the text on the display above the doors, and absorbs nothing. 

The doors open. A small old lady pulling a wheeled suitcase shoves Suga out of the way as she boards the train. Middle schoolers laugh amongst themselves, wearing PE uniforms with private school logos on their shorts. Behind them sits a souvenir shop in the center of the platform selling boxes of cookies and sweets. Suga spots the nearest escalator and rides up to the next floor. 

Upon which, he remembers that he did not take the subway back to Daichi’s apartment and is standing in the middle of a department store on the other side of the turnstile. That’s fine. Suga needs more time to plan out his conversation anyway. There’s a Starbucks. He passes the store where Daichi purchased a futon mattress with a memory foam pad for his old man back freshman year.

Suga finds himself outside the department store carrying a flowering houseplant and a bag of souvenir chocolates and feeling like a dumbass. Stuff isn’t going to make this situation any better or easier. It’s just an admission that he fucked up. Yeah, he knows, lady behind the counter at the florist with the judgemental eyes. He exhales and hugs the plant closer to his chest.

He’s arguing with himself again, each step towards Daichi’s apartment gets heavier.

     _So, I’m not good enough for you?_ Tears and quivering lip.

    No, you’re too good for me, Suga imagines himself saying. More like begging.

    A reluctant, but resolute. _I guess so, then._

Suga shakes his head. He stops walking. His heart just hurts so much and he has no free hand to wipe his eyes. 

A set of heels click heavily passed him and the bell of a bicycle approaches from behind. Suga stares at the ground. The pavement itself is a deep green with the word “stop” written in white. Miniscule streams of water enter his view from the man hosing down the entranceway to his back alley karaoke bar. A wind chime jingles and the breeze cuts through Suga’s light jacket. A fat tear rolls off the end of his nose and splatters across the road.

“I’m so stupid,” he mutters.

 

Suga rings the bell and stands in the camera’s view. Through the door, the television clicks off mid advertisement and heavy, hurried steps make their way over. The chain is wiggled out of place and the deadlock slides with a heavy thunk. A cheerful whoop erupts from the neighboring apartment followed up by a familiar chant for a Tokyo sports team. Suga clenches his hand around the shopping back, trying to get some feeling back into his cold fingers.

The door opens.

“Hey,” Daichi greets. There’s optimism, somehow. “Come in, it’s freezing.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Suga says.

Daichi’s always been beautiful, always made Suga’s heart take a moment to recalibrate. His eyes are tired and dodging away as Suga steps into the genkan and struggles to balance as he gets his shoes off.

Daichi looks at him, saying, “What’s with all the stuff?”

Suga snorts and feels a drip of snot leak down to his lip. He laughs at the stupefied look on Daichi’s face and his own choices. “Uh,” he starts, shrugging, “I don’t even know. Gifts? For you?”

“Did I forget my birthday again?” Daichi asks. He lets go of some of the tension in his shoulders and takes the plant. He makes a show of taking a strong sniff of one of the blooms.

“. .Not quite.” Suga wipes his face and takes a seat on a mat at the low table in the center of the room. “Come sit?”

He does. Eyes the bag of chocolate suspiciously. Folds his hands on the table. Lets the worry creep back onto his face, gently tightening his jaw. 

“What is it, Suga?”

Whatever’s been trying to escape his chest with its sharp claws and fearless tenacity does. It tastes like regret and self-reflection and lies he didn’t want to weave. 

“Daichi, I love you so much. It was a mistake and it will never happen again. I will tell you everything you need to know, but know that first.”

Suga should have put more thought into this. Now that he’s here and Daichi’s here he doesn’t know what the truth is anymore. He runs his hand through his hair and stares hard at the scratch in the gloss on the table. Fuck.

“I’m sorry.” 

 

Daichi doesn’t cry. His face goes slack with confusion, like he’s just remembered who he is. “Do I.. Do I know them?”

“It was Kuroo,” Suga states.

Daichi raises his fist to his mouth, the knuckles turning white as he hisses in a breath and swallows his anger. His voice is low and too level to be calm. “How long has this been going on?”

“Just today. Just once. I’m sorry.”

“Today?” Daichi’s shaking his head. “Today, you- you had just been with me. I don’t understand. What happened?”

Suga digs his fingernails into his jeans, trying to press them into this thighs, but they’re too blunt, too flimsy. “I got back to the dorm, he wasn’t there.” Suga’s voice is loud, defensive. His closes his eyes and pauses to relax. “He comes back. Maybe he’s drunk or something, I dunno, but he doesn’t know I’m there? I mean, I know I should’ve said something.” 

Suga winces. He doesn’t want Daichi to blame Kuroo. It’s not really _his_ fault. But God would that make it all so much easier.

“And he, he uh-” What phrasing? “He starts touching himself.”

Daichi slams his palms down on table and stands up. Suga jumps, sitting up tall and resisting the urge to blink, his pulse racing. Watches him walk to his tiny kitchen and back with his arms crossed over his chest.

Daichi says, “I’m sorry. I just-, I didn’t mean to startle you. Just keep going.”

“I watched. I don’t know why.” Suga had almost said _there’s no why_. “And I told him I was there and he kept going and I just watched.”

Daichi’s staring down at him. “Did he touch you?”

“No!” Suga yells. He bites the inside of his cheek and repeats, quieter. “No, he didn’t touch me. There was no. . touching. We didn’t touch.”

“You just watched?” Daichi’s voice has an incredulous lilt. “You didn’t sleep with him?”

Suga shakes his head furiously. “Daichi, no. I would never do that to you. I love you so much.”

Daichi falls to his knees in front of Suga, his eyes red and full, and buries his face into Suga’s chest. “I love you too. Please don’t leave me.”

Suga hugs him close, ashamed of his relief as his kisses Daichi on the top of his head. Murmurs, “I won’t.”

 

“I’ve wondered about that,” Daichi says with regard to nothing.

Suga’s face is full of steam from his cup of tea. One hand of his is entwined with Daichi’s very sweaty one. “About what?”

“What it’s like with other people,” Daichi admits. “I love what I have with you and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“But?” Suga suggests lightly. 

“But both of us have only been with each other. It’s not like I haven’t been curious,” Daichi says. “Maybe more so since you brought up that ‘open relationship’ thing.”

Suga squeezes the handle of the hot mug. He isn’t sure if he can handle an open relationship, but he wants Daichi to be happy. So, he’d brought up the idea. “I take it you’ve given it more thought, then?”

“I have.” Daichi blows on his tea and takes a sip. “I don’t know if I can love more than one person at a time.”

“You don’t necessarily have to love anyone else.” And Suga won’t be able to handle that.

“I know, but I don’t think I could have sex with someone I’m not in love with. It doesn’t feel right. I’m not saying that it’s _wrong_ , but just that it’s not right for me,” Daichi explains.

“I understand. I feel kind of the same way.” 

In the way that Suga isn’t sure if he wants to have sex with _anyone_ , but especially not with someone who didn’t love him and care about him like Daichi did. He’s not sure when it started, either. It wasn’t always like this. He’s sure it must be confusing for Daichi, too.

“Kind of?” Daichi asks.

“I feel like it’s more possible to feel attracted to more than one person than to feel love.” 

Suga’s tea is sweet with lots of milk, the tea bag still bleeds as he dangles it from the string. It’s the way he’s always had it and thus the way Daichi always prepares it. He’s been ordering it black when he goes to cafes lately.

Daichi squeezes his hand. “I think that’s natural.”

“But there’s definitely a difference between thinking someone’s attractive and wanting to have sex with them. For me, I think love is a part of that difference.”

“Makes sense to me.” Daichi leans in and nuzzles his nose into Suga’s cheek. 

Suga plants a dry peck on Daichi’s grinning mouth. He wants to know what the rest of that difference is. He loves Daichi and thinks he’s attractive, but the desire to have sex flickered on and off like a bulb in need of replacing. 

A different question steers Suga’s thoughts in a new direction. “Do you have any secret fantasies?”

Daichi rocks their joined hands back and forth and rests his chin on Suga’s shoulder. “I don’t know how secret they are. I think about you a lot.”

“Oh yeah? Doing what?” They’ve had a similar conversation before, Suga remembers now. 

Suga doesn’t need to look to know Daichi’s blushing as he says, “Having sex. Maybe you’re wearing one of my shirts and looking at me daring me to call you out on it.”

“How would you even notice it was your shirt? All your shirts are plain and we wear almost the same size,” Suga retorts.

“Because of the way you look at me, of course,” Daichi explains. “You have a very distinct. . ‘I’m being mischievous, notice me!’ look.”

“I do _not_ ,” he denies.

“It’s up there on my list of the top ten Looks Koushi Gives Me In Bed.”

“There’s a whole list?” Suga nudges Daichi’s face off his shoulder and and leans in to nibble on his earlobe.

“Suga. .” Daichi squirms and pushes his ear and shoulder together to escape Suga’s torment.

Suga huffs in his ear. “Back to ‘Suga,’ now? I feel like I’ve been demoted.”

“That’s it!” Daichi untangles their hands to jab a finger into Suga’s cheek. “That’s the look.”

“Shame we’re not in bed then,” Suga replies, rubbing Daichi’s thigh. He can’t help but rile him up. 

“Quick fix, that.” Daichi scoops Suga up like a princess with only half a grunt and face contort of exertion.

Suga helps, wrapping his arms behind Daichi’s neck, and hinders, kicking his socked feet in mock protest. He can’t get enough of those strong arms lifting him up. If only he could get them to hold him down, too.

Daichi carries him over to bed and hesitates. He gives his body a squeeze before asking, his own light of mischief dancing in eyes, “Hm, did you gain weight?”

“Not sure, when was the last time you hit the gym?” Suga returns. 

Daichi drops him on the bed and Suga hits the marshmallow soft mattress pad with a muted thud and the better part of a cough forced out of his lungs. Suga reassures Daichi that he’s fine with a smile while undoing the knot holding up his pajama pants.

Suga rushes to re-solidify his confidence that he’s still wanted and needed. Maybe he should stop and allow more time for them both to heal and reevalueate. They should talk more. This is the easiest, most efficient way for them to feel at equilibrium again. To make everything okay. Even if Suga is swimming in residual guilt that drowns him as Daichi’s mouth covers his.

It pulls away. “Wait, Koushi-”

Daichi’s asking _him_ to wait? Suga feels himself start to sweat. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just want to cuddle for a bit.” He eases off of Suga and lays down beside him.

Suga wants to tease him for being such a sap, but, for once, he doesn’t. He squirms and adjusts the way his body fits against Daichi’s. 

How did they wind up like this? Everything used to be so much easier when they were younger. Suga considers the differences between now and then, turning over memories of past experiences that make his face hot at how foolish and exciting they had been.

“When’s the last time you left me a hickey, Daichi?” Suga asks.

He rests his head against Daichi’s chest. His fingers gently glide across the soft fabric of Daichi’s old t-shirt. His stomach is pleasantly gurgling under his ear.

“Second year of high school, probably,” Daichi answers. His voice rings clearly in the quiet of the room. He’s flat on his back. One hand curls Suga towards him.

They’ve spent countless hours just like this, happy in each other’s company, but today there’s a tension. It stretches the idle sounds of the apartment settling into the evening: the ruffling of the shades fluttering in the cool evening breeze, the groans and creaks of the old house frame. A drip leaks from the kitchen faucet and lands heavily against the drain.

Suga startles and Daichi snickers, but hugs him harder. It must not be entirely pleasant to have Suga’s chin digging into him like this.

“So tense,” Daichi notes.

“It’s just so quiet! It makes it hard to relax.”

“Hmm guess you’re not making enough noise.”

Suga answers that with jab of his pointer finger into Daichi’s belly and relishes in the way Daichi twitches away and pulls his knees in with a grunt. He glares up at him to only see Daichi gazing down at him with a lazy smile and soft eyes. 

“I think I miss getting hickeys,” Suga says. “Not in like a ‘look at me, I’m in a relationship’ way, but in a ‘hidden memory of sex just for me to remember how it got there’ way.”

“I could probably remember how to do it.” Daichi shifts onto his side and lays face-to-face with Suga.

In the dying evening light, Daichi is dark and mysterious and unshaven Sunday scruff. He’s unrelenting eyes, broad shoulders, and illegally beautiful in baggy pajama pants. With one hand, he’s running a finger down the side of Suga’s face and grasping his earlobe and rolling the healed scar tissue of a regret between his fingertips. 

No one deserves a lover like Daichi.

“It’s like riding a bike, isn’t it?” Suga guesses. He places his hand on Daichi’s lower back and rubs one of the muscles he complains about. 

“Probably easier than that.” Daichi kisses him once, open-eyed and dry. He’s exploring Suga’s ear, the outer shell, the back. It tickles the small hairs in his sideburn. He then, carefully, carefully, covers the entrance to the ear canal with his pinky finger. “I remember how I used to stick my tongue in your ear like this.”

“Oh god. How could I forget?” Suga says, embarrassed. “It was so noisy, and weird!”

“But with the way you would gasp and shudder. .”

“Ew Daichi, no!” But he’s laughing now. And taking an opportunity to slide his hand underneath Daichi’s t-shirt and feel his skin.

“That’s not what you used to say when I would. .” And Daichi wiggled his pinky finger around in Suga’s ear.

Suga yelps. “Daichiiii, please stop, it’s so weird. I was just a teenager. Tongues were hot. I’d take them wherever I could have them.” 

Daichi stops, opting to cup Suga’s face instead. He leans in, eyes closing for half a moment before swiping his tongue from Suga’s chin to his lips. Holding back laughter poorly, he asks, “How about that? Was that hot?”

Suga playfully slaps his lower back and wipes the spit off his face onto the front of Daichi’s shirt. “Mm, the hottest.” 

“Your turn. Try and embarrass me,” Daichi says. His easy confidence flows off him waves, even as tiny shivers race down his spine to meet Suga’s fingertips. 

“You’re thinking I can’t.” Suga’s buying himself time to think of a good one. As far as he’s been told over the years, Daichi hasn’t been greatly opposed to any of the affection he’s received from Suga and does not provide constructive criticism often. Suga worries his own lip and considers the fact that he probably has not evolved in terms of bedroom skill since he’s entered university with a shudder of shame.

Daichi lets him take his time, patient and understanding, as always. “I’m not saying that you can’t. I’m simply saying that it probably won’t be easy.”

Oh, that might work, Suga thinks. He buries his face into Daichi’s neck and places open-mouthed kisses punctuated with tongue along his throat. 

Daichi gasps, hands finding their way to grab at Suga’s clothes and pull him closer. “Haven’t quite outgrown liking this yet.”

“Just setting the scene. Imagine it’s summer. It’s hot and sticky.” Suga slides his hand down to squeeze Daichi’s ass through his pajama pants and enjoys seeing Daichi’s hip give a stutter.

“Hot, yes. I suppose we’re still working on getting sticky?” Daichi welcomes a press of Suga’s thigh between his legs with a sigh.

“I’m having none of that,” Suga warns, then nips Daichi’s shoulder. He takes his time kneading his palm into one of Daichi’s cheeks, reviewing the curve and shape of it before reaching across to perform the same analysis on the other.

Daichi quiets, rolling his body against Suga in a slow, steady rhythm and breathing only on the whim of Suga’s wet kisses and nibbles against his collarbone. 

“That’s more like it,” Suga says. He drops his voice to what he hopes is a seductive, husky whisper and lets his words skim past Daichi’s pink ears. “We’re seniors in high school. We’ve already fucked in the volleyball club room, in the locker room showers, on a mat in the storage room. .”

Daichi presses into Suga’s thigh harder and whines, “Suga. .”

Suga doesn’t have much of a dirty mouth. He can’t bring himself to say “cock” instead of “dick,” but he knows that _Daichi_ can’t even say “fuck” instead of “have sex” or “make love.” 

“It’s true, we both know it.” Suga continues to kiss Daichi’s neck, this time sweeping up and letting his tongue scrape along the five o’clock shadow, the scent of his saliva heavy in his nose. “Couldn’t trust ourselves to keep quiet enough to fuck at home. Couldn’t afford to go to hotels. Had to take advantage of privacy when we could. Like one time in the two stall bathroom at training camp.”

“That doesn’t even feel like it was us anymore,” Daichi says.

Suga takes a moment to push Daichi onto his back against the futon and situates himself between Daichi’s open legs. He sits on his knees and takes in a thorough look. Daichi’s hair, cut short and left uncombed, has one gray hair sticking up directly in the middle, Suga’s favorite of all of Daichi’s hairs. The evidence that Daichi is truly an old man with a face that is much too good at toothy smiles and giving compliments. He takes his time running his palms along Daichi’s sides and down the outsides of his thighs.

“We’ve ruined each other’s hair, opened each other’s belts,” Suga lists. An unattractive snort finally sneaks out. “And your pants immediately fall down around your knees and your legs are spread so wide to stop them from falling further. I’m, shit, this is going to sound so sexy in a second.”

“Yeah?” 

It isn’t a memory Suga is likely to ever forget. Daichi stretching his neck up to catch Suga’s lip between his teeth and flick his tongue against it. Hands settling behind Suga’s neck and getting stuck in the sweaty knots of his hair.

“And I was about to have my way with you.” Suga waggles his eyebrows in what he hopes was a suggestive way, but frankly, he doesn’t have much experience.

Daichi hums, still pink and still smiling. “That was very sexy.”

“Or it was, until the first year walked in,” Suga says. He tastes his victory like the memory of salt on Daichi’s neck. 

“No, oh no. God.” Daichi covers his face with both hands, muttering to himself. His voice is muffled behind his hands. “No. I forgot.”

“No one could ever forget him. Small and orange, what was his name?” Suga teases. If he were taunting himself instead of Daichi like this, he’d worry about having a dodge a kick. But it’s Daichi and he only has one response to abject mortification.

He is still hiding, but he lets out a displeased sniff. “Like you need to be reminded.”

Suga hikes up the hem of Daichi’s t-shirt and kisses right into the thick hairs below his belly button. “He didn’t need to be reminded whose sneakers he could see in the stall next to his either.”

“Suga, I couldn’t talk to him for a week.”

“I know.” He’s pushing the shirt up higher, knowing he’s approaching the point where Daichi prefers to just take it off. He just wants to know how far down it’s possible for a blush to go.

“And we stood directly next to each other in the starting rotation,” Daichi continues. He hasn’t uncovered his face. “He ended up apologizing to _me_ for what happened.”

“Must’ve been awful.” Suga’s neutrally inspecting the spots of razor burn on Daichi’s chest and weaving his finger across his skin around the bumps and scattering kisses about. A shift of his leg reveals that he successfully killed Daichi’s boner. He’s not sure if he’s proud or disappointed.

“Okay, okay, okay.” The hands finally come down. “You win.” 

“The games have only just begun.” 

“You’re the worst,” Daichi says, but he’s pulling Suga’s free hand up to his mouth and kissing the inside of his forearm anyway.

“You love me.”

Suga rests his head against Daichi’s chest, prickliness no longer a concern as listens for that warm, rhythmic thumping inside. He remembers the first time he heard it, years ago now, through a t-shirt wet with rain and tears, and having never felt safer.

“I do.” Daichi joins their hands. “I really do.”

One heartbeat. The steady blast of the heater by the ceiling and motorcycle speeding down the street. A bookshelf Daichi had built with his father over the summer and a row dedicated to gifts from Suga, from the comic they’d been obsessed with in high school, to the entire Harry Potter series, to an adult coloring book that he doubts Daichi’s ever opened. Another heartbeat. Suga smiles because he knows all papers sticking out between its pages are notes or doodles or ticket stubs that Daichi absolutely goes through every once in a while. He can see it, glass of wine, listening to his favorite song, squinting to read the exact time he purchased a pass to a museum, or a specialty chocolate, or a train ticket. Sweet, sentimental Daichi. Suga closes his eyes.

“. . .Which is why I have to do _this_.”

Suga found himself flipped onto his back now. Oh, how the tables turn. Anything but this, he wants to gasp, but his air is stolen by the fingers knowingly worming into his sensitive sides and underarms. And really, he knows it’s only what he deserves, but he’s kicking for freedom for the second time that day. 

“Betrayal!” Suga yells. He’s trying to reach Daichi’s toes, but he won’t make it. He never does.

It stops.

Daichi kisses him.

It’s fine, as kisses go. It’s steady. Some tongue there, a suckle on a lip here, teeth as landmarks or tools as required. A taste of tea and quiet adoration and plenty of saliva. Suga breaks the kiss with a smile to wipe both of their lips with the back of his hand before inviting more. Their lips smack loudly like they could echo into the street and off the mountains. Not that Suga, like, cared about the noise, but if it were going to be that noisy, it didn’t need to be so _restrained_. 

Suga leans his head back against the bed to get enough distance to speak. “Dai-”

Another kiss eats his next syllable. Suga rolls his eyes and taps Daichi’s shoulder twice.

Daichi stops immediately, he sits up. “You okay?”

There’s a familiar twinge of annoyance that Suga’s tries to write off. He knows how much Daichi loves him and wants to make him happy. He knows it. He’s always trying his best - it’s Suga that’s the problem. It’s not fair to get mad at Daichi.

So, he smiles and shakes his head. “Yeah, I’m good. Just uh, was running out of air.” 

Lines appear between Daichi’s brows. “Are you getting sick?”

“No,” Suga states firmly. “I want to talk.”

“O-oh, alright.” Daichi vaguely indicates his position. “Should I move?”

“No, this is good. If you’re comfortable, then I’m comfortable.” Suga wishes those worry-lines above Daichi’s nose will relax. “Would you be comfortable trying something new?”

If anything, the lines grew deeper. Daichi leans back and crosses his arms. “Well, what are you suggesting? Does this have anything to do with.. uh, what happened?”

“I’m not sure,” Suga replies. “I guess it does and it doesn’t. We both know that I haven’t really been. . into it as much lately.”

“Yeah,” Daichi argees, defeated. He climbs off of Suga and pulls his knees to his chest.

“Ugh, come on. How are things going to get better if you get all grumpy when I want to talk about it?” Suga teases, trying to project only support and light.

Daichi stares at the blankets. “I’m sorry. I just get sad. It makes me feel like I’m inadequate and unattractive. Like-” He takes a shuddering breath and blinks rapidly. ”-like, you don’t.. want me anymore.”

Suga sits up. He presses his forehead to Daichi’s. He focuses in on the slivers of black on brown irises and those sparse, damp lower lashes. 

“Daichi. There’s no one else in this world that I want other than you. I love you.” 

They’re not new words from Suga, but the barbs of truth still hurt to bare.

The response is just a whisper.

“I trust you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe Suga isn't the only one feeling insecure after all.
> 
> but really though, who isn't?


	7. Take It Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kuroo goes back to Bokuto's place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good for them

“This is it,” Bokuto says, his key turning in the lock of a plain beige door with a single number on it.

The air’s grown colder since they left the restaurant. It’s been a mild November and the leaves are just beginning to shake free from summer. Kuroo’s grateful for the heat of Bokuto’s palm as it guides him inside the apartment. A taunting gust licks the back of his neck as the door shuts behind them with a slam.

Keep it cool, he reminds himself on repeat. These words are only marginally more frequent than the observations _holy shit_ and _this is happening_. 

Normally, there’s nothing too exciting about an entranceway. There’s shoes, a welcome mat, perhaps a folded umbrella. But today, it’s their first breath of privacy. The tension of “decorum” relaxes from their shoulders. 

Bokuto kicks off his shoes, but Kuroo’s are still on by the time Bokuto whirls around and pins him with a look that’s open and honest and an all-betraying tilt of brows and blush and deep smile lines at once. All for Kuroo. Is legal to feel so flattered from a meaningful glance?

“Do you want slippers?” Bokuto offers.

Perhaps staring dumbfounded at one’s host instead of removing your shoes doesn’t send them the correct signal.

“Nah,” he replies, slipping off his sneakers and stepping into the kitchen.

“Want a tour?” There’s a note of pride in the question, perhaps evidence of of a morning of cleaning. 

Whatever it is, Kuroo wants to feed into it, badly.

“I’d love one.”

The kitchen is a miniature refrigerator, a sink, and a two burner stove. There are magnets holding up take-out menus and coupons. Everything “out” still seems to be in its “home.” There is just enough organized chaos: a clean strainer, pot and lid sitting on the back burner; a small rice cooker and a coffee pot resting on the floor next to accommodate their short cords. Each problem was addressed with the most straightforward solution available.

“Have you ever taken a nap while watching the coffee brew?” he ask.

Bokuto almost looks offended. “Of course. Why else would I leave the pot on the floor?”

Before Kuroo has a chance to finish the cough that follows his bark of ugly laughter, Bokuto swings the next doors open in rapid succession. 

“Toilet.” A small room with, unsurprisingly, a toilet and burst of something flowery and artificial that fades as soon as the door is closed.

“Shower.” 

That it is.

“And, lastly, the room,” Bokuto announces, opening a frosted door to show a decent sized living space. 

There’s table with the two chairs, the desk sharing two laptops, and the single free-standing closet featuring styles too diverse to belong to one. Kuroo’s gaze settles instead on the one futon folded up in the corner and a wave of defensive questions crawl up the back of his throat.

Bokuto takes a few steps in with his arms spread wide and does a turn. “And this is it. Except for Akaashi’s space in the loft, of course,” he adds hurriedly. 

“It’s nice,” Kuroo remarks. 

The walls are busy with posters and photos, tacked directly into the wall to the point that there’s barely a white spot left. There’s no clear pattern it. A rock band poster framed with high-school purikura. A One Piece fanart print featuring the silhouettes of the main cast of characters with a tear in the corner hastily bandaged with a sticky note. There’s Totoro drawn on the small square with a magic marker. 

Actually, there are dozens of doodle post-its on the walls, held up by individual push-pins. An owl, a man under a streetlight, a girl double-fisting riceballs, and many outlines of hands holding invisible objects. 

Kuroo squints at a black and white poster centered on the wall. “Huh. This is really cool.”

“You think so?”

Upon closer inspection, Kuroo notices that the top and bottom edges are jagged and torn. The coloring was done in black ball-point pen. There are birds and wings, impossible to tell where one bird ends and another begins.

“Wait, dude. Did you draw this?” Kuroo asks. He’s seen Bokuto doodle in margins and on his forearm, but nothing like this.

“I sure did. Took about seventy hours or so too, but it was the summer, so there was nothing better--”

“It’s amazing,” Kuroo interrupts. “ Can I take a picture?”

Bokuto’s smile stretches and his flush of pride creeps down his neck. “Yeah, of course. I’m just happy that you think it’s any good.”

Kuroo snaps a photo and drinks in the picture again with awe. He wants to reach out and feel the lines from the pen. “Did you ever take any art classes?”

“Yeah, a couple.” Bokuto shrugs. “After that, I would have had to declare an art minor and I wasn’t sure if I could handle it.”

“Oh, well. .” Kuroo trails off, “you’re very good.” 

 

There’s a balcony, too. The street below is quiet and empty, splashed with twilight. 

“You can see Mt. Fuji on clear days,” Bokuto explains, pointing off into the hazy distance.

Kuroo’s buried in a borrowed scarf that’s really a blanket in denial. It’s warm, as is the small mug of instant cocoa he’s cradling in his hands. He blows and sips carefully (there’s white in the scarf, after all). 

The railing is cold against his covered elbows and his nose is threatening to begin dripping. But he stays.

“That’s cool.”

“I’m out here a lot. The fresh air resets my brain,” Bokuto says. He hasn’t sipped his cocoa yet. The way he’s leaning over, it’s kissing the brim of the mug.

A small circular ashtray is on the floor of the balcony. Perfectly clean, with a small black lighter sitting in the middle. The laundry line hanging above is empty save for wooden clothespins. Leaning in the corner against the sliding glass door is a tired broom with wayward bristles darting off at odd angles, tangled with hairs. 

Kuroo hums. He’s thinking about how Suga gets pictures of sunsets from his boyfriend and he saves them as his lockscreen. 

“The street kind of reminds me of my parents’ house,” Bokuto goes on to say. His fingers twitch like he was about to gesture and a big drop of cocoa falls down onto the street. “There’s only like, a few feet between any of the houses, but everyone in the neighborhood cultivates these tiny, beautiful gardens in the alleyways. They’ll be these vines that climb up the houses and wind their way onto the cables and the branches and hang low enough to hit you in the face.”

“Speaking from experience, I’m sure,” Kuroo says.

“Well, yeah.” 

This street has an assortment of potted plants both hanging from porch ceilings, lining pebble walkways, and crowding doorways. There’s a black cat laying stone still in loose soil in one empty pot, staring unblinkingly up at them. 

“My neighborhood was. . more secluded, I guess,” Kuroo says. “It was on a pretty steep hill and all the houses were built on separate shelves. The windows that faced the hill were practically useless. All I could see would be concrete wall that led up to our neighbor’s yard.”

“Sounds lonely.” Bokuto’s leaning into Kuroo’s shoulder. It’s warm.

It’s almost so nice that Kuroo forgets to continue talking. After a few seconds too many of silence, he clears his throat. “It wasn’t so bad. There was a park at the bottom of the hill. And my best friend and I would put dumb chalk doodles on the wall.”

He wasn’t sure if he intended to remember drawing a big pink heart around his best friend’s name and trying to kiss him, but he did anyway. Perhaps it was the emptiness of the street and his cold nose. Or his dry lips, which he keeps licking, even though he knows it will make them worse. 

“I guess that makes it better then,” Bokuto says. His knuckles are brushing Kuroo’s arm through the sweater.

“Can we go inside?”

“Yeah.”

 

The mugs are set down on the table and Bokuto’s setting out his futon.

Kuroo has casually sat on other people’s beds before. It’s not weird. College students practically live on their beds in the dormitories. He probably couldn’t list everyone whose sat on his bed on two hands. (Three, maybe.) Though it was nothing compared the comfortable weight of Bokuto’s arm across his body as they cuddled. 

“I actually grew up sleeping in a western-style bed. Never thought I’d get used to having to actually clean up my bed everyday,” Bokuto says.

Kuroo has never been used to cleaning anything. “Hah, well. You saw my place.”

Bokuto snaps the comforter to set it flat over the mattress. A strong whiff of fabric softener goes directly up Kuroo’s nose. God, he hadn’t been prepared for any smells besides burned coffee, faint body, or old pizza grease and all of his expectations are being exceeded. 

“Yeah, you’re a slob.”

“Hey! I wasn’t exactly expecting company, you know.” Besides, Suga’s just as bad as he is.

Bokuto snorts. “Yeah, yeah. It’s all good. I didn’t go over to your place for your ability to keep house.”

“Oh? What did you come over to my place for?” 

“A lot of reasons.” Bokuto counts them on his fingers. “I’d missed the last train. I was drunk. And cold and tired and lonely and, to be honest, lost. But mostly, the guy I liked invited me over to his place.”

“You like me?” Kuroo blurts.

It’s not like this hasn’t occurred to Kuroo, but the years of insecurity will take more than one utterance of validation to work through. Also, it just feels very good to hear. 

Especially with Bokuto casually patting the comforter next to him on the _bed_ and looking up at him all earnest like that. 

“Of course I do! I’m. . still thinking about how you looked at me last night. Like, I couldn’t believe someone like you would ever like me.”

Kuroo takes the seat, careful not to lean against the wall. With Bokuto sitting an entire zero centimeters away, it’s easy to remember what gave his mind pause the night before. 

Bokuto Koutarou is attractive. He has always been this, Kuroo knows, but it takes him longer to pick up on things like broad shoulders and gold eyes and strong hands. He’ll notice Bokuto as a lab partner, careful and precise, with illegible handwriting that’s still beautiful. Or as a gym buddy, pushing you to do one more because he sees the potential in everyone but himself. Maybe even as the one you cling to at drinking parties, ordering draft beer because it’s easiest and laughing in a way that’s impossible not to join. As a friend.

“Hey,” Kuroo says, like Bokuto isn’t already looking at him. And, he’d like to boast that he was moving first, but it didn’t feel like a race as they leaned in.

Kuroo takes his time. He maps out the cusps and plateau’s on Bokuto’s teeth. Measures the natural rate of breaths, exhaling hot and hard. The rotational capacity of Bokuto’s long, wide tongue exceeds his own. But he can’t keep up. He presses harder, knocking their incisors together with a clack.

“Sorry,” Kuroo mumbles.

Bokuto giggles. “It’s all good.” He opens his mouth for inspection. “They all there?”

“Yep,” Kuroo confirms. “Are mine?”

“You know-” Bokuto squints in the darkness. “-your teeth are like, really nice, actually.”

“Well, I did have braces for three years,” Kuroo explains.

“No way! Do you have a picture?”

He did. Unfortunately, facebook exists. So does every one of his dumb profile pictures, from braces to cat ears.

“Oh my god, look at baby Kuroo!” Bokuto takes the phone out of his hand and swipes through the pictures before Kuroo has a chance to interject. “You’re so cute!”

 _Cute_. No one really calls him that. He’s always too tall or too dorky. Momoka or his mother had called him handsome, sometimes. Oikawa had called him “pretty good-looking, I guess” once.

“The hair really isn’t intentional, is it?”

“No,” Kuroo deadpans, running his fingers through it again with a frown.

Bokuto reaches over and vigorously ruffles the other side of his head. “So it’s just naturally awesome, then.”

“You’re naturally awesome,” Kuroo returns.

The phone goes down and they do too. Kuroo’s flat on his back with Bokuto’s tongue in his mouth and that’s about all he’s able to process. He breathes occasionally, supposedly. He wants his hands to roam, but he keeps them glued to the sides of Bokuto’s face and the back of his neck. Afraid it’s not allowed. 

Bokuto breaks off to kiss along his jawline and down his throat. 

So much. 

Teeth scrape along his skin. He shudders, head thumping back against the futon, some word or sound escaping. A name, a curse.

“Do you mind if I leave you hickeys?” Bokuto’s whispering. Like it’s a secret.

Sure as hell won’t be a secret anymore if Kuroo says no. “Yeah, no. Do it. I like it.”

It hurts, but it’s good. No way to tell where one ends and another begins. Like the birds. He’s pushing up against the thigh between his legs and he doesn’t think it’s ever felt this good before. There’s a hand under his shirt, and it’s burning and grabbing as it sees fit. 

Another secret, a request this time. “Talk to me.”

“Feels good,” Kuroo says. “You’re so warm.”

Bokuto hums, too busy pulling down the collar of Kuroo’s shirt from the inside and kissing his collarbone. 

“‘S warm enough.” Kuroo’s reaching behind Bokuto’s back. The sweater wipes away from the sweat from his palms. He gets his fingertips under it and sighs as he notices the button down is tucked into his pants. 

Bokuto rolls his shoulders forward, stretches his arms out. “Help me out?”

The sweater comes off. The shirt underneath is damp. 

Kuroo starts to undo the buttons. His hands are too clumsy, like they’ve never encountered a button before. They did a better job unhooking a bra that one time, traitors. He finally gets one open. 

Bokuto rocks against him with a soft moan. 

“Ah, I like that,” Kuroo says. He’s holding onto the next button, but all his energy is going into holding himself up, huffing the scent of body spray, tasting the skin covering the carotid. “So hot.”

“No, you,” Bokuto retorts, his next thrust a little rougher. “I really wanted to do this.”

Kuroo replies with a bite, barely more than a kiss. At the sound of sharp inhale, he presses harder. Bokuto tilts his head, pressing his chin into Kuroo’s face with a minutely negative noise. 

“I don’t really like it,” Bokuto says bluntly, returning to normal volume. “I mean, I love to do it to other people, but it doesn’t feel really good to me.”

Kuroo lays back against the futon, hands dropping from Bokuto’s shirt. “Oh, uh, sorry.”

“It’s fine, dude. You didn’t know. If you don’t like something, you gotta tell me straight like that too, ‘kay?” 

He toys with “straight” puns before abandoning the joke. “Okay, thanks.”

Right. Kuroo has no problem with the buttons now, even blinded by Bokuto’s kisses. Between blinks, the shirts come off, going somewhere. Mutual groans, chest to chest. Kuroo hanging onto the belt loops of Bokuto’s pants, legs spread. Bokuto’s thick, strong arms cage him in, flex as he rolls his hips and shake when Kuroo nibbles his lower lip.

“It’s almost too dark to see you. I want to. Want to see your face,” Bokuto’s saying.

The room’s washed black and white. Can’t see the difference between Bokuto’s iris and pupil. 

“I wanna take off your pants,” Kuroo replies.

Bokuto laughs in his face, a bit of spittle hits his cheek. “You’re so romantic.”

“I mean, yeah, I’m romantic as hell.” Kuroo puts his lips on Bokuto’s ear to share his own secret. “You’re beautiful when you laugh.”

Another giggle. “Smooth recovery. Smooth enough to get in my pants, for sure.”

Kuroo jumps on the invitation and fiddles with the belt before an insinuation catches up to him. “I, uh. Don’t. . I mean. How far into your pants are we talking here?”

“However far. . you want to go? I was just really thinking about sucking your dick to start with though, to be honest,” Bokuto says. He ponders the situation like it’s just occurred to him that they don’t have a plan. “Yeah, maybe just oral. I mean, I know you and I trust you, but it’s been like less than a day.”

Well, then. Holy shit. Okay. He goes from thinking _Bokuto’s laughter is pretty_ to _his mouth is fucking sexy_ in about five seconds. “Hah, right. You’re right. Don’t need to rush anything.”

“Maybe just a little rushing.” Bokuto undoes Kuroo’s pants. The slide of the zipper brushes against his dick. “I really want to do this.”

Some wriggling and kicking gets the pants and underwear off. Kuroo’s thankful for the darkness. He lays with the scarf loosely gathered behind his head, enveloped in that fresh laundry scent. He’s being covered in small kisses from neck to navel, each placed randomly.

“Have I built enough sexual tension yet?” Bokuto asks. 

Kuroo can practically hear his goddamn smirk. He shoves Bokuto’s shoulder. “I’ve only been generating sexual tension for the last three years, but I could always use some more.”

Bokuto stops. “Three _years_?”

“Yeah, uh I’ve been single for a while. I’ve haven’t. . since high school.” 

“ _That’s_ why you’re so nervous!” Bokuto exclaims. He leans back onto his knees and shakes his head. “I’d been trying to figure it out. Like I was thinking you were a virgin or something.”

Kuroo covers his face with his hands. He’s way too naked for this conversation. He mutters into his hands. “Ugh, is it that obvious?”

“Huh? Wait, really?” Bokuto asks, before quickly adding, “Not that I care or anything. The whole concept of virginity is dumb. Though I guess it’s important to some people, I dunno. Not to me. And it’s not obvious.”

“You’re the first person to even see me naked like this.” Kuroo drops his hands on the futon on either side of his head.

“I’m honored. You’re beautiful.”

Kuroo welcomes the deep kiss that follows closely behind that statement. It’s more careful, coordinated, a taste of tongue instead of a mouthful. Hands in his hair and a thumb stroking his cheek. When Bokuto’s mouth returns to his neck, he’s running his lips over the hickeys like an apology, all soft words instead of bites.

“Hair’s all messy. All cute. ‘S good. You’re a good kisser, too.”

Kuroo hums. “You’re better.”

“Want to make you feel good.” Bokuto places both of his hands over Kuroo’s and nudges his way between his fingers. “I like you so much. Have, for a while. Feels like a dream.”

“Best dream I’ve ever had.” 

“Just wait.”

It’s too easy to get lost in kissing Bokuto. He’s sure an hour’s gone by and his lips are tender. Bokuto hums and groans eagerly into the kisses, but he’s not doing anything else. 

Huh.

“Bo?”

“Yeah?” It’s a breathless, gorgeous sound.

Kuroo lifts his legs and hooks them on Bokuto’s back with a gentle tug. “Please?”

Bokuto lowers gently with a sigh, leaning on the futon on his elbows now. “Like this?”

“Yeah.” He’s controlling the pace with his heels, pulling Bokuto into his rhythm, encouraged by the shaky stutters of his name. 

 

“Hey, uh, could you use your hand please?”

“So polite!” 

“Ah, thank you, Bokuto-san.”

“Don’t call me that when I’ve got my hand on your dick!”

 

It’s actually difficult for Kuroo to manage making out and getting jerked off at the same time, he’s surprised to realize. He can’t keep the rhythm and his lungs exhale whenever they see fit without consulting him. It’s been probably like, a minute, and Bokuto is going at a slow, relaxed pace. Kuroo catches wind of the game he’s playing.

“Faster,” Kuroo instructs.

He’s reminded of that morning. A jolt of pleasure at memory of Suga grabbing the sheets next to his face, gasping for air.

 _That’s what you’re thinking about to get off?_ Kuroo remembers, with a shudder. 

He can’t stop, now. 

    Suga’s looking down at him with that smile on his face. The one that knows too much. Bits his lip and nods. 

And it’s over.

 

Bokuto kisses the side of his neck, slow and wet, as he strokes Kuroo through his release. Kuroo fixates on a spot of darkness above them, knowing nothing is there despite the after image of his imagination.

“Did it feel good?” Bokuto asks.

“Yeah.” His limbs feel heavy. The futon is warm and comfortable compared to the cold air of the apartment chilling his sweaty forehead. “‘M sleepy.”

“Typical man after all,” Bokuto states. “Let’s at least get you cleaned up first if you’re going to take a nap.”

“I bet you are too.”

“Wanna find out?” 

Kuroo’s already helping Bokuto kick his pants off. “Yep. Come up here.”

Bokuto straddles Kuroo’s chest, hanging hard and heavy over Kuroo’s face. “Ambitious, aren’t you?”

Kuroo’s too tired to be nervous, feeling the weight of Bokuto in his hand with silent appraisal before guiding the head towards his mouth. “Just lazy.”

“Y-you’re sure this is, ah, okay?”

Kuroo gives him a thumbs up. The taste is oddly underwhelming in comparison to the musk. The little groan of relief as Kuroo takes him in is the most satisfying sound of his life.

His mouth gets tired after only a few thrusts before he’s moaning through the pain, tongue eagerly lapping at the underside. Spit is dribbling down his chin and onto his neck. His fingers, curled around the base, serve to guard from taking it all the way down his throat. 

Kuroo moans louder. Embarrassing. The next thrust misses his mouth and bumps into his nose. He keeps his tongue out, letting it slide along the bottom. He’s hard again. There’s an ache in his jaw. Another hand joins his and angles the next thrust back inside. The head rubs along the roof of his mouth and Kuroo pulls his upper lip over his teeth to keep from scraping. 

“Ah, just like that,” Bokuto hisses, moving faster.

Come on. Kuroo can’t keep this up much longer. A high-pitched whine escapes him. He tightens his grip.

“Tetsu-, I’m gonna come, are you-?”

Oh God, yes. Kuroo digs his nails into Bokuto’s ass and pulls him in deeper. He doesn’t even taste it as it hits the back of his throat.

Finally.


	8. Boiling Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akaashi can't handle Bokuto's new relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> even though I'm about as multi-shipper as it gets, I can't not see Akaashi in love with Bokuto. it's just the way it is.

Suga steps into the cold night air from the pleasantly warm confines of the train. He tugs on the fringe hanging off the scarf around his neck, thankful for the dark bruises the scarf hides and for the lingering smell of Daichi’s apartment clinging to it.

The city is never empty and the station platform is no different. The vending machines hum. One dispenses a snack with a whir of machinery and a clinking of change sliding down the coin return. There are wooden benches symmetrically placed along each side of the platform, gleaming in the lights. The station is covered and birds nest in the rafters as evident from the occasional splotches of excrement on the otherwise spotless floor. Cleaners wait on call with mops and brooms to spot check train cars as they pass through the station. Commuters check their smartphones as their breath clouds. A traveler in a baseball cap and hiking boots checks the train time schedule with a shaking pointer finger and breathes a sigh of relief. 

A sniffling catches Suga’s attention, coming from the benches nearest the end of the platform. More curious than anything - he cranes his neck to get a look and finds the figure hunched over, hugging their knees to their chest on the bench. Something’s familiar. 

Suga stops as the man hurriedly pulls an iphone from his pocket with a screen so damaged, Suga is shocked that it functions at all. He swipes at the answer button furiously two, three times and presses it up to his ear.

“Hello?”

Suga knows that voice. Admittedly, he’s better at faces, but he certainly knows it. He takes a seat on the opposite end of the bench and pretends to browse through his own phone. 

“Oh, it’s not a problem. I just got out of work,” he says. His face is red from the cold. He pulls the phone away from the receiver to sniff loudly. “I’m sorry, could you please repeat that?”

Suga takes what he hopes is not too obvious of a glance and pauses in surprise. It’s Akaashi Keiji, the man he’d met that morning. There’s no mistaking that majestic profile. He wears a tired frown. The knuckles on his fingers are split and bleeding from dryness. His effortlessly wavy hair barely covers the tips of his ears and grazes his eyebrows. His coat is plain and buttoned as high as it can be. His dress pants look too thin for the weather. At least his feet look warm, encased in clean, polished ankle boots.

“No, please don’t worry about me. I had work anyway. I’m on my way home now,” Akaashi explains.

Suga can hear a man’s voice on the other line, but can’t make out any words in particular. He also finds the remark unusual. Akaashi had told him that morning he was starting work at seven and it was now well after ten o’clock at night. Even if he worked a double, surely that was too long to be plausible. 

Akaashi’s face hardens and he bites his lip hard enough to leave an impression. “I’m glad you had fun. I’ll see you soon.”

The call ends and Akaashi stares at the blank screen of his phone long after it goes dark. Suga puts his own phone away and tries to subtly shift closer towards the other end of the bench.

“You really are nosy, aren’t you, Suga-san?”

Suga grimaces, but the tone isn’t accusatory, just observational. He replies, “I’ve been told as much.”

“At least you’re honest.” Akaashi slides his phone back into his pocket and breathes into both of his hands before rubbing them together. “It’s cold, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Supposed to warm up tomorrow, though.”

“Oh, good.”

The board shows that the next train in Akaashi’s direction isn’t for another ten minutes. Suga doesn’t remember when Akaashi had gotten on their train that morning. There's no telling how long it will be until he finally gets home safe.

Suga says, “I’m surprised you were working this late. You came in so early.”

“My roommate wanted the apartment to himself after a date.” Akaashi glares out into the darkness and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Traded for a double.”

“Ah, you’re a good friend then.”

“Not like I want to walk in on anything like that,” Akaashi says with a shiver. 

Suga and Tooru are bad, horrible people. “Yeah, that would be awkward for everyone involved.”

Akaashi makes a thoughtful noise. He’s a captivating sight in long eyelashes and red cheeks. “Are you speaking from experience?”

“Hah, well. Yeah, I suppose I am,” Suga answers. He feels like Akaashi is working up to asking him something else.

“I won’t do that to him,” Akaashi says quietly. “But I don’t think I’m a good friend.”

“Why not?”

“I lied to him. I’ve been sitting in the station for over an hour. I don’t want him to have a good time on his date or to have privacy in the apartment after. I wish I could’ve ruined everything for him instead of having to feel like this.”

Suga wonders if Akaashi can only talk like this because he’s a stranger, an outsider to his situation. “But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.” Akaashi slouches in the bench until his head rests against the back support of the bench. He blows a cloud of breath into the air and watches it dissipate in the wind. “If I really cared, why wouldn’t I just tell him the truth?”

“You probably don’t want him to feel guilty.” 

“You’re not wrong.”

Suga likes to think he’s a patient man, generally speaking, but at this rate the train will come before Akaashi finds his courage to talk about what’s really bothering him. The anticlimaticness of it all will have Suga keel over dead. He gets up and sits beside Akaashi.

“Well, you did the right thing. So, what’s really bothering you?” Suga asks.

Akaashi leans away and tries to push his hands deeper into his pockets. 

“It’s obviously eating you up inside and you can’t talk to anyone else about it or you wouldn’t even bring it up to the stranger who semi-stalked you this morning. So, come on. Out with it.”

It earns him a glare, but it’s halfhearted and gone as soon as it arrives. “You seemed a lot kinder this morning.”

Suga waves it off. “It’s tough kindness and I’m a master of it. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Fine.” There’s a spark of anger. Words that follow come faster, hotter, and lower. “I’m in _love_ with my roommate.”

Suga blinks.

“It’s been _years_. He sees me as his best friend. Isn’t that betrayal?”

“No,” Suga says gently. 

Akaashi buries his face in his hands. “It’s not like I haven’t tried to move on. I’ve tried to just be his best friend and be supportive when he gets a date, but it hurts. It hurts so much.”

“I’m sorry.” Suga wants to rest a hand on his shoulder or wrap him in a hug.

“It’s not your fault.” Akaashi smiles wryly. “I think it’s almost funny, in a way. I almost found the courage to talk to someone else today, but he was too busy texting his boyfriend on the train to notice me.”

“And you accused _me_ of being nosy!” Suga prods him in the shoulder for that one.

“I believe that I saved us both time and an uncomfortable interaction through my actions.” 

“I can save you both time and discomfort too. Confess to your roommate.”

“I can’t.”

“Akaashi, I know you’re thinking that you have so much to lose. But honestly, it’s college. It’s time to live! There’s no better time in your life to fuck up and make mistakes.”

“But-”

“But nothing!” Suga declares. “If it doesn’t work out, you’ll finally have your chance to heal and move on. If it does. . well then you’ll just regret having waited so long.”

Akaashi considers this. “I get the impression that not many have been able to defy you. You’re a force beyond reason, Suga-san.”

“So, you’re going to do it then?” 

“Perhaps. You’ve made your point clear, but I’m afraid that I won’t be able to build the courage any time soon. And it doesn’t feel right knowing that he’s already seeing someone.”

“Ugh, the excuses. Fair excuses, but excuses. Do it and text me. Or call me. Here, take out your phone.”

Akaashi continues to argue, but he’s handing over his phone. The station starts singing its tune as Suga struggles with the lack of sensitivity in the cracked screen. Suga barely finishes entering in the digits to his number as the train pulls into the station. 

“Get home safe!”

“You too, Suga-san. Thank you.”

Akaashi boards and lingers by the doors to offer small wave good-bye through the window as the train leaves.

 

 

“Hey, wake up.”

Kuroo does not want to do that. He throws an arm over his eyes to block out the light and groans. God, what time was it? He feels around for his phone.

“Hey, hey.” A nose is pressing into the side of his face. “Hey.”

Kuroo is naked. He has no pockets for his phone to be in. He’s covered in a warm, soft blanket on a futon. He turns his face and Bokuto’s face is there, wide-eyed, staring, and grinning. There’s something vaguely chocolatey on his breath and his lips are wet. Everything is good.

“You catching last train?” Bokuto asks. 

It doesn’t really seem like that important of a question. It can’t be that late. Kuroo steals a kiss instead of answering, enjoying its sweetness just because he knows he can, for once. Bokuto is all too eager to indulge him, lips parting, moving faster. He can’t be sure if time is passing at all or if those rules have been temporarily suspended. 

Kuroo breaks for air and the second hand ticks forward. He’s awake. Feels goosebumps rising on his bare arms and shifts back under the blankets.

“I don’t mind if you want to stay over, like, that’s totally okay with me, but I should really run that by Akaashi first, you know?” Bokuto says. “He already said he was on his way back and he’s had a really long day so he’ll probably just crash straight away. He’s used to seeing me in like boxers or whatever, but I’m not sure you two are cool like that? So maybe we should find your clothes.”

Kuroo finally gets a word in edgewise. “Whoa, wait. What time is it?”

“Like eleven fifty?”

Oh.

“I should go. Have you seen my phone?”

 

Dressed and ready by midnight, Kuroo rests a hand on Bokuto’s shoulder for balance as he forces his shoes on. 

“You sure you don’t want me to walk you?” Bokuto’s look is lonely, not concerned.

“Dude, I could see the station from your balcony. I’ll be fine.”

“Well, if you insist. ‘S cold out anyway.” He had dressed in a matching set of university hoodie and sweatpants. The hoodie is frayed along the cuffs of the sleeves, a bit too tight across the chest where years of washing half peeled away the lettering. His hair, formally gelled into some semblance of neatness, is a mess with strands defecting left and right. 

Kuroo swings open the door and braces against the wind. This whole twenty-four hours has been a twisting, winding ride that he can’t wait to end. He hasn’t spent nearly enough time overthinking the day’s events to certain about how he feels about any of it. He can’t get enough of the chatting and the kisses and how he’s leaving post-orgasm reeking of lavender fabric softener. Says, “I had fun.”

“Yeah! It was great. We should do it again sometime. Like tomorrow.” Bokuto winks.

Maybe it is going a bit fast. “Alright, we’ll see. I mean, I think I’m free.” 

“I can make dinner. Or we don’t have to get dinner and we could just hang out and watch a movie at a place or something,” Bokuto suggests. He’s about to continue when Kuroo cuts him off.

“The train, Bo. I gotta go.”

“Right! Text me.” Bokuto leans over the genkan, bracing against the door frame with both hands, and gives Kuroo a peck.

Kuroo turns it into two, then three, and stops when the hairs on the back of his neck inform him that he’s being watched.

Akaashi looks deader on his feet than usual. Maybe not just on his feet, but inside too. He’s standing a respectable distance away, trembling. Polite silence has never been so judgmental.

“Sorry.” Kuroo turns his face away as it fills with heat. He brings a hand up to cover his neck.

“Akaashi!” Bokuto calls out, poking his head further through the doorway. “Welcome home!”

“Thank you,” Akaashi says, something sandpaper-y about it.

“Well, night guys. See you tomorrow,” Kuroo says quickly. He gives a vague wave and makes his exit.

“Night, Kuroo! Hope you make the train!”

“Good night, Kuroo-san.”

Ugh, that was awful. He’d always been good with the two of them, but this whole him-and-Bokuto thing is making him dread his interactions with Akaashi. He is not looking forward to Wednesday night lab. He catches snippets of their conversation as he heads for the corner.

“Bokuto-san, I would prefer it if you kept the heat inside the apartment from now on.”

“You know I don’t turn on the heat until December. D’you wanna coffee?”

The apartment door swings shut. Bokuto’s voice carries through the walls into the street.

“You sure? I don’t mind making a fresh pot. Or cocoa? Or tea? C’mon your face looks so cold. They not keeping the trains warm anymore?”

“Something happen at work? What’s wrong? You can tell me. You know I’m the best listener.”

“Nothing!” Akaashi snaps.

Kuroo stops in his tracks, does a double take towards the apartment, and lets out a low whistle. Jesus, he’d hate to be the guy that caused that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading. :D


	9. Match Set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suga and Kuroo go back to the dormitory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't understand how other creators end up with chapters of relatively consistent length

Suga hangs up his coat in the quiet dorm room.

The right side of the room is Kuroo’s, always has been. Dresser under the windows with his TV perched on top. Unmade bed with sheets and various blankets with two ridiculously luxurious pillows with silk covers. Suga is tempted to just throw himself onto Kuroo’s bed and fall asleep there. It wouldn’t be the first time, either. Over the bed, Kuroo has a full-cast Naruto wall scroll, a map of the universe, a calendar still open to September, and an old piece of graph paper with a pencil drawing on it, smudged and faded with age. Suga thinks it maybe a drawing of a Gundam or some other giant robot, but it’s honestly not good enough to tell the difference. 

Kuroo has his desk at the foot of his bed near the door. He has more writing utensils than he knows what to do with, pens spilled across the desk and sticking out haphazardly from an over-sized mug beside his computer. He’s always been more of a one mechanical pencil he keeps refilling kind of guy, but his grandparents aren’t aware of that. There are two different hoodies draped over the back of his computer chair and several dirty socks under his desk. He has a desk lamp, too. Small and blue. Even though he’s been reassured that keeping the main lights on wouldn’t be a problem. 

Suga’s desk is beneath his lofted bed. He goes to hook his phone up to the charger in the power-strip and decides to plug in the colorful fairy lights wound around the perimeter of his mattress. Their light averages out to a purplish pink, reflecting on his skin and the surface of his laptop. As much as he was a fan of his nook, he doesn’t use it nearly as much as he did as a first year. It is as good a time as any, he thinks, going around and adjusting the sheets hanging from the foot and head of his bed so they hung evenly. 

His stomach gurgles uneasily. There is a mini-fridge hidden in Suga’s closet, homage to their underage drinking days. Inside is milk, a half-finished two liter of barley tea, a small bag of tired baby carrots, and a six-pack of fruit and jello cups. Suga grabs the milk and returns to his glorified blanket fort. The deepest of his desk drawers is reserved for snacks. He pulls out a sleeve of Oreos, rips open the package, and put an entire cookie into his mouth. 

_Monster_ , Kuroo would say.

But he’s not here, so Suga swallows the cookie down with a gulp of milk directly from the carton. Dark crumbs sprinkle onto the desk as he wiggles out a second cookie from the sleeve. Kuroo should be home by now, having reconciling conversations with his beloved roommate, and going to sleep for his early-ish class tomorrow morning.

Suga goes to text Kuroo and demand his location and ETA on pain of RA involvement and notices he’s received several messages from an unknown number.

_It’s akaashi keiji. Thank you again for giving me your number and your advice. I hope you’ve gotten home safe._

The next one had arrived about ten minutes after the first. 

_Suga-san, what should I do?_

_I yelled at him and now he thinks he’s mad at me._

_No. He thinks I’m mad at him, rather._

**Hey, I just got home. What happened?**

_He kept asking me what was wrong._

_He had been so happy to see me._

_I’m sorry._

Suga doesn’t really get it. He frowns down at his screen and takes a swig of milk in the meanwhile. A dribble escapes down the corner of his mouth and sinks into his shirt. He’ll actually have to wash it now. He’s trying to get a vision of what may have happened to the resolve he witnessed as Akaashi boarded the train.

**I’m happy to listen. Would you mind walking me through what I’ve missed since I’ve seen you?**

_Wait_

Suga raises an eyebrow. Okay, then. He rests his phone on the desk, goes back over to his closet and tugs his shirt and undershirt over his head. He stuffs them into the laundry bag. He goes through his closet, flicking through the hangers for soft shirt to wear to bed.

 

Kuroo makes it into the dormitory. The pretty RA from the third floor barely spares him a glance as he walks by. He doesn’t think she knows him, but it’s not the appropriate time to contemplate the lack of security. 

Bokuto hasn’t texted him back, even though Kuroo remembered to text him from the train. He figured he’d still want to know that he got home safe, so he shoots a message that just says Home, night. There’s a squirming discomfort that presses his lips together as he locks his phone. He probably just fell back asleep, right?

His hallway is empty. There’s a shower running in the communal bathroom and some voices from indiscernible origin. Kuroo passes the bulletin board, exploring the names written in Oikawa’s cute-and-bubbly romanji with hearts dotting the i’s until he finds the name of the girl at the desk. Can’t hurt to know.

He gets to the door, hoping Suga is still at Daichi’s, or asleep. He turns the door handle, imagining Suga having pulled his chair into the center of the room and watching the door like a reproachful father. He’s half surprised to see the lights on at all. From the genkan, he can see there’s no one in Suga’s bed, so he kicks off his shoes.

“Hey, I’m back,” he announces, a little awkward. He usually doesn’t bother, but after this morning, he’s not taking any chances. It’s weird, now. Knowing Suga, he probably wants to have some kind of talk instead of sweeping the event under the rug even though they more or less agreed to forgetting about it earlier. He presses his thumb between his eyebrows and tries to will away his building nerves.

“You’re back late,” Suga replies.

It sounds normal. He steps into the room, catches sight of Suga, and any semblance of relief curdles. 

“Jesus, Suga,” he says before he can stop himself. And he knows he’s a hypocrite, but he can’t stop himself from gaping at the deep red marks on Suga’s neck, his chest, where they sit half-covered by the waistband of his boxers and where there may still be more hidden. He’s so much paler and the translucence of his chest hair does nothing to cover them. 

“And here I thought you of all people wouldn’t judge,” Suga quips, turning his back and ripping the first shirt he sees off the hanger. Fingernails had found their way down Suga’s back, leaving their trails between his shoulder blades. A pimple over his spine is crusted with a spot of dried blood. The t-shirt covers almost all of the damage.

“I’m not judging.”

But Kuroo hates it. He kind of wants to beat the shit out of Sawamura all of a sudden even as he remembers, hauntingly, Suga’s words. _I wish. Daichi would never ‘endanger’ me._ It’s literally none of his goddamn business, but he can’t help it. Every time he looks over, he’s seeing Suga’s hickeys and feeling angry. He knows it’s not right. Knows the feeling isn’t rooted in rational thought.

 

Suga lets out a laugh. “We match.”

Kuroo recoils, mortified. He slaps a hand over his neck and rushes towards the door. “I gotta go.”

“Whoa, wait, I’m sor-

The door slams shut. The following silence is booming. Blood rushes through his ears. He drags his feet back over to his desk and falls into his chair, stunned. He pushes the Oreos and milk away in disgust and stares into his fairy lights. What is Kuroo’s problem? Suga’s trying his best to make everything okay again and he just _leaves?_ He slams his hand down on the desk. The milk carton teeters, but stays upright. Suga wishes it had fallen.

“Fuck me.” His hand hurts.

Suga breathes. He’s obviously upset Kuroo somehow and blame him for getting hurt is not conducive. Ugh. He wants to follow after him and apologize. No, Kuroo will come back. Eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there was originally going to be a heavy implication that akaashi smokes marijuana when he is stressed, but eh


	10. Lend an Ear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kuroo spends the night with Oikawa. Suga listens to Akaashi vent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year
> 
> I just realized that this is the first fic where I write Oikawa. I'm having a lot of fun with it.

Kuroo knocks on Oikawa’s door. He checks over his shoulder to see if Suga is following him. He’s not. That doesn’t feel right. 

The door cracks open enough for a terse whisper and nothing more. “Fill out the lock-out form and slide it under my door when you’re done.”

“Oikawa, it’s me,” he replies lamely. 

The voice brightens and chimes, “Tetsu-chan, why didn’t you just say so?”

The door swings open. Oikawa’s hair is damp and dripping onto the hood of the same RHSA sweater from that morning. He’s wearing shorts, or maybe just boxers, barely visible below the hem of the sweater and socks with Pikachus making okonomiyaki. 

He’s grinning a bit too widely for 1 o’clock in the morning, bearing a purple wine stain on the inside of his lower lip.

“Where’s your other half?” Oikawa says, taking in Kuroo’s appearance with a suggestive waggle of his brows. 

Kuroo snorts. “When was the last time you _had_ another half?”

“Hmm let me see. .” He retrieves a cheap plastic goblet of wine from out of sight and takes a dainty sip. “I’d say fuck you, but it looks like someone else already has.”

It’s so much easier this way. Kuroo relaxes, puts an elbow against the door frame, and meets Oikawa’s eye. “Jealous?”

He giggles. “I can’t take you seriously, Tetsu-chan. Where are you shoes?”

“Oh.” Kuroo looks down at his socks. “Dunno.”

“You’re a disaster. Come in.”

Oikawa’s room has an air freshener with a small, overworked fan billowing beachy sweetness. He lives alone and has both bed frames pushed together with one mattress at ground level and the other higher. There are enough pillows to almost be a couch. His laptop is set up on a low table. His computer mouse has about twenty buttons on it and glows blue.

Kuroo settles in on the lower bed and hugs one of the throw pillows to his chest. “Thanks, man.”

“Well, I figured you didn’t come over to remind me of my lack of a sex life.” Oikawa takes another sip of wine. He coughs mid-swallow, sloshing a splash of wine to the floor before offering hoarsely, “You want some? I assure you it’s-” Another cough. “-quality.”

“I’d never pass up an opportunity to imbibe the finest boxed wine with you.”

Oikawa’s face flashes up from where he’s dabbing at his floor with a paper towel. “How _dare_ you imply that I’d even _consider_ something as undignified as-”

“I can see the box on your dresser from here.”

“Oh, you really can. I should probably hide it better.” He dispenses wine into a large coffee mug and brings it over. He raises his goblet. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Kuroo touches the mug to the goblet and takes a sip. He hopes he doesn’t grimace.

Oikawa tips the goblet up and back, throat working in two loud gulps to clear the wine. “Woo! That is. Awful.”

“Damn, leave it to you to go hard on a Sunday night,” Kuroo remarks, impressed.

“Mhm. Don’t have class ‘til 3 anyway.” He bounces up to refill his drink. “Join me in debauchery, Kuroo. We could play cards. Learn things about each other we never dreamed of knowing.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Getting there.” He does find a deck of cards somewhere, starts dealing them mindlessly into an easy drinking game.

Kuroo draws a card, shows it, and drinks. “I got mad at Suga.”

Oikawa’s card indicates that Kuroo has to drink again. He doesn’t look surprised. “Is it about this morning?”

It’s Kuroo’s turn to enjoy the burn of wine slipping down the wrong pipe. Bleh. “ _What?_ ”

“When he and I went to your room to see if we could force a coitus interruptus?” He gestures vaguely at the cards for Kuroo to draw one.

“That’s- that’s not even what that means!” Kuroo drinks before he even looked at his card. “And uh. No. I didn’t know that. What the hell?”

“Whoops.”

“First of all, drink.” He throws the card on the pile. “Second of all, dude _what._ ”

Oikawa shrugs innocently. “You weren’t actually doing anything.”

The blood is returning to Kuroo’s face. Wine or memories, your guess. “Well, we weren’t, but there’s no way you could have known that.”

“Oh please, how many people have you heard fucking in this hallway?”

“Okay, point.”

Oikawa flips his next card. “Oh! Truth or dare.”

“God, we’re actually playing with those rules?” Kuroo sinks deeper into the not-couch and rests his chin onto the pillow. He leaves his drink on the floor. Doesn’t want to risk spilling on the lightly colored comforter or pillows. 

“Come on. You’re not fun.” He pouts. It looks ridiculous. The stain is so bad.

“Fine,” Kuroo says, but he’s smiling. There’s a warmth now, building somewhere in his cheekbones, probably. “Truth.”

The words rush out in a flurry like he’d barely held them in all this time. “Have you and Koushi ever hooked up?”

Kuroo recalls Suga wiping his come off the mattress cover. He replies evenly, “No, we have not.”

“Hm. I would’ve been more surprised if you had, honestly.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’re my friend and I love you, but you’re no Sawamura Daichi,” Oikawa explains. He exhales dreamily, staring off into the distance. 

“Right.”

It’s pointless to compare himself to Sawamura, of course. He’s shorter, but stronger. He’s a scholarship student who actually still had all his shit together by the end. He’s Suga’s first and only, and they’ve been together forever. Just a great guy. Gives a firm handshake and a warm smile, laughs at your jokes, dresses smart, but not pretentious. Normal hair.

Kuroo scoffs and drinks more, hoping the envy will burn away.

 

Most of the cards end up on the floor. Neither bother to refill after the last round. _Close Encounters of the Third Kind_ plays on the laptop with the sound barely audible. Oikawa’s head rests on the pillow in Kuroo’s lap and he keeps pulling random cards from the pile without regard for whether they’ve already been played.

“Tell me what happened with Koushi,” Oikawa says, low and sleepy. His face is perfectly relaxed and his eyelids droop closed and stay that way.

“Caught me jerking off.” He’s not even embarrassed anymore. He probably will be. 

Oikawa snorts and laughs. “Hot.”

“It kinda was, actually.” Kuroo watches the last of the giggles fade from his face, entranced. His smile is pretty. 

“I never took you for an exhibitionist.” He forces his eyes open with rapid blinks and squints at the card in his hand. “Uh, drink.”

“Should probably start playing with water,” he mutters. This is probably going to be his first back-to-back hangover. He should be ashamed, but he just feels tired.

Oikawa hums and rolls onto his side. He adjusts the pillow and focuses on the screen. “I don’t think I asked if this was okay.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s really nice.”

“I’m glad.”

The noises from the movie fade into Kuroo’s dreams.

 

 

Akaashi is like a different person entirely when he texts. Though, Suga assumes that the conditions of their fledgling friendship are unusual.

_He wanted to talk to me but I can’t like this_

_I’d do something stupid like tell him the truth or forget to listen_

_I saw them kiss. I didn’t think it would hurt as much as it does._

**Yeah, I hear you.**

_And he’s worried that his date didn’t go well._

_He’s always worried. Even though he’s the best person I know_

_But I don’t want to listen to him tell me all about his date and reassure him that everything was fine_

_This date’s our friend too_

_and I feel like such an asshole, but I like the guy less as a person now_

_And it’s not his fault and it doesn’t make sense._

**It doesn’t have to make sense. They’re feelings.**

_The worst part is how I can’t be happy for them_

_I’ve been able to be happy when he had other relationships_

_And it hurts him when I don’t want to deal with his enthusiasm_

_Why can’t it be good enough for him to be happy?_

**You don’t have to be happy about it.**

_I’ll be a good friend in the morning_

_But right now I want to be bitter_

**You can.**

_I love him more!_

_I love him more than that guy even has the capacitance to love!_

Suga doesn’t know what that means. He googles it, sees the math, and understands less. Kuroo would probably know what it means. He presses his phone to his forehead and lets out a groan. He wishes Kuroo would come back and so they could make up. Suga is ready to apologize and to understand where he went wrong. All he wants is the opportunity.

It’s funny, too. If Suga hadn’t indulged in that fortuitous bout of voyeurism, he probably never would’ve spoken to Daichi about his lack of satisfaction at all. He’d daydreamed on the train ride back about thanking Kuroo for the inspiration. He’d never really do it, of course, but it’s fun to think about. And what’s more remarkable, is that Kuroo never walked in on Suga before. It might’ve been normal, that way.

_capacity**_

_That guy never looks at him like he’s special_

_not like he deserves_

_I’m better looking_

**I don’t even know the guy and I can believe that last one’s true.**

The message is read. Suga stares at the chat until his screen does dark and frowns at the lack of reply. Did he mess up again? Trying not to dwell too much, he tidies up the cookies and milk from before. Changes into gym shorts to sleep in. Turns off the main lights in the room and basks in the glow of the fairy lights. 

He hears footsteps outside his door. His heart catches in his throat and he holds his breath. The door handle jiggles and a key card swipes through the lock once, twice. Suga gets up to let him in, makes it two quick steps towards the door.

“You dumbass! This isn’t even our room!” some guy says. His voice is familiar, but Suga can’t place it.

“Hey, don’t call me a dumbass! You didn’t realize it until just now either!” his companion replies. 

Suga shakes his head and mutters, “Keep yelling like that and you’ll face Tooru’s wrath.”

There’s finally a reply.

 _Im blushing so incredibly hard right now._

It makes Suga smile. 

_I should probably go to bed_

**Good night!**

He unhooks his phone and climbs up into his bed. Ends up under the covers somehow and thumbs through social media sites mindlessly. It’s too easy to keep his eyes open. He rolls over and faces the wall. Double-checks his alarms and tucks the phone under his pillow. Palms himself absently through his shorts and counts the hours until he needs to be awake again. The angle from the doorway wouldn’t make a good show if Kuroo were to come back right now. He closes his eyes and pretends.

    “Really?” Kuroo asks. “At least I had the common sense to be embarrassed.”

    “I thought we were past that.”

    He approaches the bed, perfectly eye-level with Suga’s working hand. Remarks, “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

Suga arches his back towards the ceiling, his thighs shaking and hips stuttering. His wrist grows tired. He bites his lip. Huffs loudly through his nose and keeps the whimper in.

    “Tell me how you like it, Suga.”

    “Watch and learn.”

    “Oh, don’t worry.” Kuroo goes on his tiptoes and folds his arms on the mattress. The darkness accents the curve of his cheek, the wide breadth of his shoulders, the excitement in his voice. “I’m paying careful attention. After all, I’m more than eager to help.”

    “Bit late for that.”

After he cleans up and returns to bed, cuddled up in the warm (now, slightly damp) spot with the covers pulled over his shoulders, his eyelids slide closed easily. In the static, where the voices he wants to hear conflict with the murmurs of his worries and subconscious, he adds a last line to the scenario.

    “Guess that makes us even.”

 

Oikawa sits up from his lap with a smothered yawn. He stumbles out of the room clutching his toothbrush and toothpaste. The door slams closed behind him, jarring Kuroo from his daze enough to make him check the time and get into a more comfortable position. He burps and winces at the vileness of his own mouth.

The computer is asleep. The laptop and the air freshener fans whirl with a low, consistent hum, bleeding into background noise as soon as you stop thinking about them. The room temperature is just cool enough to make Kuroo want to burrow under the comforter, but not enough to invite himself to do so without explicit permission. He could do without his jeans and his sweaty socks too.

Is it lonely living in a room all by yourself like this? The extra furniture is tucked away - dresser in the other closet, desk under the bed. The design had been perfected over the course of Oikawa’s two previous years as an RA. Not unlike the attitude he presents to his (other) residents. Everything has its place.

He has a cork board above his desk with a collage of photos, ticket stubs, cut out pieces of informational pamphlets. Well, mostly purikura. It’s too far away for Kuroo to make out any of the faces on the stickers. The big pictures are group shots - one of a sports team he was on, another of all of the RA’s in their new sweatshirts, and one of a wedding party in which Oikawa is a head taller than everyone else.

Oikawa returns, gently closing the door this time, and flinches. “Sorry, Tetsu-chan. Did I wake you?”

“Nah, it’s fine.” 

“I can probably find you some shorts or something to wear,” he offers.

Kuroo looks down at his hands. He tugs on his fingers to pop the joints. “I should probably go.”

“Up to you.” Oikawa leaves a pair of shorts on the table next to his laptop. “I’ll leave my key here too in case. Just. .hit the lights after you decide, okay?”

Oikawa steps next to Kuroo and climbs into the higher bed with a groan of relief. He closes his eyes and his lips are slack and parted. 

Kuroo stands and notices he’s still drunk. He grabs the shorts and the key to use the bathroom, borrowing Oikawa’s sandals. He visits the water fountain too, drinks his fill, and returns to the room with a mildly upset stomach and a desire to be horizontal as soon as possible. 

He settles in already half-asleep, laying flat on his back with his legs crossed to try and keep them warm when the springs creak in the mattress above him. 

Oikawa whispers, “Ridiculous.”

A blanket falls over Kuroo’s face.


	11. Could Be Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kuroo and Suga apologize. Akaashi is done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> consider this your gentle reminder to go to class, if that's something that you typically do.
> 
> (but don't do any of these things while you are there.)

It’s the next day. Kuroo comes back to the room just as Suga climbs down from his bed. 

“Morning,” Kuroo says. 

Suga’s hair is mussed and catches the light from the windows. His t-shirt has Coca Cola written across the front despite Suga giving soda a wide berth. He returns the greeting with an edge to his voice.

“Look,” Kuroo starts. “I’m sorry for bailing on you last night. What you’d said- I don’t even remember exactly what it was, but I just got upset and I uh. .”

“Needed space?” Suga offers. He wipes sleep dust away from one eye. He leans against the bed frame. The little lights that line the underside of his bed are on, their glow faint and powerless compared to the morning sun.

“Yeah.” It’s hard not to notice the three hickeys on Suga’s throat.

 

“I’m sorry too.” Suga regrets a lot of yesterday. He just wants this to be behind him as painlessly as possible. “From yesterday morning, to last night. It wasn’t fair of me. I’m really sorry.”

It’s not comfortable, but it isn’t going to be. Kuroo shifts, crossing his arms and letting them fall back to his sides. He doesn’t let his attention linger on anything for long. He squirms under the weight of the apology before he finally shakes his head.

“It’s okay.” He sits on his bed, massages his temples with a hum of discomfort. He blinks with great difficulty and uses one hand to shield his eyes. 

Kuroo is wearing yesterday’s clothes and dark undereye circles. He’d left without shoes and returned without socks. Suga wants to get him breakfast and push his greasy hair under the cold spray of the shower. 

“I talked to Daichi about what happened,” Suga admits. 

Kuroo groans and slaps his hands over his face. The hands drop. “You told me you were going to, but I didn’t believe it, honestly. God, I don’t even want to know what he thinks.”

Daichi just doesn’t want me to leave him for you. Suga clenches his jaw, trying to will the thought and its associated guilt away.

“I don’t think he thinks much of it. We’re fine,” he replies.

 

Kuroo thinks they look more than _fine_. He’s never seen the man more obviously freshly laid and he’s seen them _cuddling naked in bed_. (Once.) And, at that time, it hadn’t even bothered him. 

But now, “You know, I’m kind of jealous of you guys.”

Suga shrugs. “I want to assure you that you shouldn’t be, but I have to say that I seriously lucked out. How did your date go?”

Kuroo’s mind is flooded with things he most certainly should _not_ say and the looming wariness that his first class begins in less than an hour. He remembers Bokuto’s face buried in his neck, the wall covered in drawings, the hot cocoa taste on his tongue. 

“I think. .it went really well,” Kuroo realizes. “I almost feel like I’m unworthy.”

“Oh, Kuroo. I’m glad it went well, but don’t think for a second that you’re not worthy,” Suga replies. “I want to meet him and make sure he’s up to your standards.”

Kuroo makes a show of rolling his eyes and it causes pain to lance through his temples. “Yeah, okay, Dad.”

“I will not tolerate attitude in this dorm room,” Suga scolds. “Now get your ass out of bed and take a shower. You look like shit.”

It hurts, but it’s probably true. “Will you get me breakfast?”

Suga crosses the room, grabs Kuroo by the upper arm and yanks him to his feet with a strength Kuroo has come to expect. “Yeah, yeah, now get going.” He pauses, leans into Kuroo and takes a whiff of his hoodie. “No wonder.”

“Oikawa needed company in drowning his loneliness in bad wine,” Kuroo says in his defense. 

“I believe it. You need a painkiller too?”

Kuroo gathers his shower caddie and his towel and slides into his shower shoes. “Nah, I got some, thanks.”

“Good.” Suga claps him on the back and causes him drop his loofah on the floor. “Better hurry now.”

 

Kuroo makes it to class on time, hair dripping and chewing the last bite of a rice ball, just as the professor starts turning on her projector. He climbs down the lecture hall stairs towards his usual seat and slides past someone on the end. It’s then he notices that Bokuto is sitting in his seat, with Akaashi taking up the adjacent.

“Morning Kuroo!” Bokuto calls. He’s hushed from some unseen source a few rows back, but nothing about him dims or dwindles.

Kuroo whispers back, “Morning. What are you doing here? I thought you said you needed to sit in the front row not to fall asleep?”

“I wanted to sit next to you.” Bokuto pats the seat next to his with a grin.

Akaashi spills the contents of his pencil case on the carpeted floor with a curse on his breath. He turns his head and roots around for his fallen things.

Kuroo settles in, leans on the arm rest, and replies into Bokuto’s ear. “I would’ve just sat in the front with you.”

“Yeah?” Bokuto’s excitement can’t be contained by teeth and eyebrows, even his hair rises. 

The professor calls the class to order. Her TA passes her the meter stick she uses to reach the higher diagrams in her presentation and sits down to take attendance. His voice stutters over Bokuto’s name when he notices where he’s sitting, pauses meaningfully, and continues roll call with lilt of exasperation.

Bokuto elbows him. “Dude, I think he knows.”

“Bo,” Kuroo says, keeping his voice as quiet and respectful as possible, “if you keep talking, _everyone_ is going to know.”

“I don’t mind if you don’t.”

And it’s so honest and sweet, Kuroo can’t help but blush and smile. He shoves Bokuto’s shoulder playfully. “I’m actually here to listen to the lecture, you know.”

Bokuto does turn down his volume, barely. He makes no attempts to hide his staring. “Good thing one of us is.”

 

Suga checks the weather and squints in annoyance at the projected temperature. He’d been betting on another day as cold as yesterday to warrant scarf or turtleneck, but the true god that is Google proclaims the day is to be pleasantly mild. Such is life.

His section has their group lesson tomorrow and Suga desperately needs to practice. He can feel the callouses fading from his fingertips already. He dials Kiyoko’s number, hoping belatedly that she’s not in class.

“Hello?” Wind gets caught in the receiver, producing irregular static. Kiyoko’s voice is gentle, but clear and faintly curious.

“Ah, good morning, Shimizu-san. It’s Sugawara,” he says. He’s actually pretty sure this is the first time he’s _called_ Kiyoko instead of just speaking in person or briefly over text. 

There’s a breath of laughter. “I’m assuming this is about your instrument?”

He can imagine her, long hair tangled up in her fingers and the frames of her glasses, walking the cobblestone path towards her dormitory. Perhaps she’s carrying a glass tumbler of unsweetened white tea in her free hand and her classic gray tote bag over one shoulder. Men and women alike hate Suga the moment he causes her sunrise of a smile instead of them. 

“It is.”

She is on her way back to her room, thankfully. They make plans to meet up in about fifteen minutes outside her building and end the call.

Suga checks himself in the mirror again, feeling every bit as foolish as he did last time this happened in high school. This time he doesn’t even have his gakuran collar to help him out. Though, it gives him an idea. He dons a button down shirt (that might be Daichi’s, actually) in desperate need of an ironing and throws a light, soft cardigan over it. The sleeves of the cardigan swallow his hands in warmth. The shirt doesn’t look right buttoned up to the neck without a tie, but he doesn’t know what happened to his. He’s also not quite sure if one is permitted to wear a black tie with a brown sweater. 

It’s as good as it’s going to get. Suga ties on a pair of red high-top converse and heads out. Aiming to take a shortcut through the building’s side door, Suga passes Oikawa’s room and sees the door open. Oikawa’s at his desk, drinking from a colossal water bottle in his pajamas with a textbook open in front of him.

Suga knocks on the open door anyway.

Oikawa hurriedly puts the water bottle down to greet him and notices who it is. “Oh, it’s you.”

“What’s with that lackluster reaction?” Suga teases. “Wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with a completely innocent midnight gathering with Kuroo, would it?”

“It might,” he answers. He squints up a Suga and fishes his glasses from the desk. He gasps and shouts in accusation, “Koushi!”

It’s always _something_ with him. His dramatics make him fun. “Yes?”

Oikawa has him pulled into the room and the door shut in moments. He lifts Suga’s chin with his fingers and gently inspects, hissing himself when he sees the teeth marks. “Koushi, you can’t let boys do this to you.”

Suga sighs. “Maybe I wanted the boy to do this to me.”

“Maybe you wanted him to do this _five years ago_ ,” Oikawa remarks, dropping Suga’s chin. “It honestly looks like you and Tetsurou decided to practice vampirism on each other.”

“No, nothing like that.” He shudders. “Something tells me that you didn’t give him a hard time about it.”

“He’s a virgin,” he declares. He taps Suga on the nose. “He gets a pass.”

“I wasn’t aware that one grew out of enjoying particular sex acts with experience,” Suga says, letting an acceptable amount of abject disappointment seep through.

Oikawa backed off, palms showing in apology. “I didn’t mean it that way and, forgive the assumption I’m about to make, but it seems like an odd move to add to your repertoire this late into the game.”

“I’ll admit it’s been warming the bench for a while.”

Oikawa’s face is etched in sincerity. Which looks quite ridiculous with his RHSA sweater and his plaid pajama pants and his freshly dried, full-bodied perfect hair. “If it knocks the ball out of your park, you have nothing by my whole-hearted approval and acceptance!”

“Okay, I think we need to put a stop to this sports metaphor now,” Suga decides. “I’ve gotta meet someone, do I look presentable?”

“Depends, does this someone play for our team?”

Suga represses the urge to groan in his face. “Tooru, _we_ don’t even play for the same team. It’s Shimizu. You’ve met.”

“Oh, you’re fine then. No one’s even going to notice you when you’re with her. Nice play,” Oikawa commends, giving him a praising clap on the shoulder. “Also, if there’s ever a gathering that she will attend, please invite me along.”

“Of course,” Suga promises easily. He can’t imagine the two of them together at all, but hell, who knows? Besides, he knows how much of a soft, eager romantic Oikawa is. “I gotta go. Be good.”

Oikawa winks. “You ask too much.”

 

Kuroo is probably going to combust. And no, it doesn’t matter that he’s in a lecture more or less disproving the possibility of such. The easily excitable professor is off on another one of her infamous tangents, which are usually quite fascinating and the whole of the reason he waited to take this course until she was teaching it. But, as expected, the majority of the class has started doodling in the margins or put down their pens to check their text messages. Even the TA looks like he might nod off on his hand.

The lecture hall is structured much like a theatre, with cushioned seats attached in rows. The rows are wide and plentiful enough for no student in this class to need to share a row with more than two persons. (Unlike say, Biology 101 where you’d be lucky not to be sitting in the aisle. First-year Kuroo made mistakes.) So, considering the resulting proximity to another individual when you occupy neighboring seats, it would not be unusual to say, bump elbows with that individual. At worst, one might drop a pencil or eraser from the small desk that folds out from the armrest and have to invade the personal space near or between a neighbor’s feet.

With this, it stands to say that it was unlikely for the backs of Bokuto’s fingers to brush against the side of Kuroo’s thigh unintentionally. Kuroo digs burrows into the gel grip of his mechanical pencil with his nails. He checks over his shoulder and the nearest person behind them is two rows away, sleeping with his face nestled in the pages of a textbook for a different class. 

Kuroo writes a note on the corner of his paper and pushes it subtly into Bokuto’s view. _What are you doing?_

Instead of using his own notebook, Bokuto pens his answer below Kuroo’s note. _Trying to hold hands. Is that okay?_

Kuroo nods. He slides his hand under his desk palm up and it’s covered as quickly as it’s presented. Bokuto’s hand is hot and sweaty with thicker fingers that thread through his too easily. It’s nice. Worth giving up his dominant hand for the remaining half an hour of the lecture, for sure. He was always a good listener.

There’s a telltale shuffle of papers and zipping of pencil case of someone packing up early. To Kuroo’s surprise, it’s Akaashi. He’s shoving his notebook into messenger back and clicking the clasps closed. He slams the fold-out desk closed. Kuroo and Bokuto’s hands separate as the eyes of the entire lecture hall land on their row. The professor pauses mid-sentence, mouth open.

Akaashi stands, takes in the attention he’s receiving and gives a curt bow. He mutters, “Excuse me.” and takes the aisle stairs two a time towards the entrance of the room.

Kuroo watches, speechless.

The professor clears her throat and returns to her regularly scheduled program. The slide in the presentation changes. The TA returns to grading assignments. All the other students resume their note-taking, except for Kuroo and Bokuto. Bokuto is just staring at the door like he’s waiting for Akaashi to come back in, worry carving lines onto his face. 

A minute passes and Bokuto slumps back into his seat. He pulls his phone from his pocket and sends a message, probably to Akaashi, and leaves the phone out on his notebook. He cracks his knuckles one by one, then his wrists. He checks his messages even though there wasn’t a notification and roughly puts his phone back down with a sigh.

Kuroo writes another note to Bokuto. _Is he okay?_

Something must be wrong. Bokuto writes, looking fed up with the note passing and the lecture as a whole.

No kidding. Kuroo feels distracted and guilty, trapped to listen to a presentation he no longer cares about. He’s a shitty friend. Too busy enjoying the increase in his heart rate to even notice. He considers sending a message too, but decides that it’s best that he let Bokuto handle it for now. They’re best friends, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading. :D


	12. Food for Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suga and Kiyoko support Akaashi. Suga learns the whole story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a new job, apartment, and roommate in my life. I wish there was also a new cat.
> 
> but at least there's a new chapter.

Shimizu Kiyoko is radiant. She waits outside her dorm building, sitting on a low wall that encircles the patio out front. There’s a sign declaring the area a no-smoking zone, a small wooden picnic table and benches, and a standing ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. She pays it no mind, head tilted up with her eyes closed, letting her face absorb the sunlight. She’s wearing an oversized dark green sweater over black jeans and is, in fact, holding a tumbler of tea in her lap. 

Suga almost doesn’t want to disturb her. He tip-toes up to her side. It’s only a moment before she’s squinting at him through her eyelashes.

“Nice out,” he remarks plainly.

“It may be the last warm day of the year,” she replies. “I might not practice today.”

Suga joins her on the wall, crosses his legs at the ankle in front of him. “Finally giving me a chance at principal after all these years?”

“Then again,” she considers carefully. Her fingers drum along the sides of the tumbler. “I might not allow you to practice either.”

“You’d hold my instrument hostage to keep first chair?” Suga asks.

“No,” Kiyoko corrects lightly, “to keep your company. Have you eaten?”

He nods. “With Kuroo this morning. But it’s as good a time of day for a second breakfast as any.”

“How did that go?”

“Eh, could’ve been better, but it’s alright.”

The two of them stand and brush the seats of their pants. They head leisurely down the path that parts the grassy quad. A handful of students in shorts and t-shirts toss a brightly colored frisbee in a circle. A bad toss sends the frisbee flying high between two participants. They squint up at the frisbee as they sprint to catch it, collide face first, and land in a undignified pile on the ground. The game is temporarily suspended with hoots and howls of laughter.

It’s an easy silence between them as she guides them in the direction of the nearest convenience store. The autumn breeze sweeps through the leaves of the trees and murmurs inconsistently in their ears. A pair of joggers with matching fluffy dogs on leashes pass them by, making idle conversation.

Suga can just make out the lecture center in the distance as they exit out onto the street. He’d inadvertently memorized Kuroo’s schedule and knows that his class is there. Kuroo has it taped to the inside of their door, following a suggestion from their RA back when they were first years, and just keeps up the habit. Suga considers getting Kuroo of those energy drinks he likes as a surprise. He sighs.

“Hm?” Kiyoko asks.

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

Suga bites the inside of his cheek. Kuroo’s new love interest might be in his class, probably is, considering they’re in the same major. Showing up unexpectedly while bearing gifts may send the wrong impression.

“Kuroo actually went on a date last night,” Suga says. He gives a fake chuckle. “Good for him, right?”

“Yeah. You always say he should get out more.” She watches him curiously. One of her hands rests on the strap of her bag. Her fingernails are manicured round and short and are painted with shimmery clear polish. She wears two plain black hair ties on her thin wrist. Besides the occasional beauty mark, her arms are pale and smooth. If Suga had to guess, he would say they were freshly shaven.

Belatedly, he asks, “Do I really say that?”

“You do. You complain every weekend you spent in your dorm that Kuroo is always just sitting in the room, looking at the same internet sites and listening to the same CD, all day.”

Suga stops. “Oh my god.”

Kiyoko looks alarmed. “What? What is it?”

“I think this is longest I’ve gone without hearing that CD since summer break.”

She smiles and shakes her head.

“I don’t think you understand, Shimizu.” Suga gets his hands into the conversation to emphasize his words. “He listens to that CD _every day_. The same one. Out loud. Because ‘it sounds better that way.’”

“He must like it a lot,” she replies neutrally.

“You know what the worst part is?” Suga doesn’t give her time to guess before he yells, “He doesn’t even know the words! I mean, I don’t either because it’s lovely baritone garble, but if you only listen to one CD, you should at least know _any of the words_.”

Kiyoko’s giggling now. They continue, reaching the doors of the convenience store. The doors open with a welcoming chime and an unseen employee yells a greeting. Suga had figured that she would grab one of the prepackaged meals or a couple rice balls, but she beelines down the snack aisle quickly enough to give Suga whiplash. He follows after and notices a familiar face.

“Akaashi-kun, good morning,” Suga greets brightly.

“Well, it is morning,” Akaashi replies. His eyes are red and tired. He sniffs loudly and turns his face away to dab at his nose with tissue. He’s standing in front of the cheap children’s snacks, an equivalent to an individually wrapped corn puff in one hand. 

The music over the convenience store speakers fades from an advertisement back into a cover of upbeat love song. Akaashi looks down at the snack in his hand and his fingers flex as though to crush it in his grip before returning it to the shelf with a sigh.

“I have to apologize for my behavior yesterday,” he says, not meeting Suga’s eye. “I appreciate the patience and kindness you showed me.”

“It was no problem at all.” Suga sees Kiyoko behind Akaashi, collecting a box of each type of chocolate covered nut. She softly hums along with the song on the radio.

Akaashi takes a deep breath until it hitches with a high pitched note. He deftly turns on his heel with an apologetic wave. “Sorry, I- I have to go.” He conceals his face as best he can as he brushes by Suga and escapes the convenience store.

“Is he okay?” Kiyoko asks. Her brows furrow.

“It didn’t look like it, but I think there are extenuating circumstances making things worse than they should be.”

Suga returns to the entrance to the convenience store and grabs a basket. He makes his way over to the bread aisle and grabs a few of his favorites. He takes a yogurt, a jello fruit cup, a liter of lemon tea, a milk tea, a bottle of cola, and, fuck it, a can of energy crap for Kuroo.

“I thought you already had breakfast,” Kiyoko states as Suga adds rice balls of different kinds to his basket.

The weight of the basket becomes a strain on his fingers. He gives up on the handles and carries it with both arms. Suga shrugs with a disingenuous smile. “It was a light breakfast.”

“I see.”

He returns to the snack aisle and collects different treats corresponding to the flavors chocolate, strawberry, and green tea. It’ll have to do. Even if it doesn’t work out, he’ll just have snacks until New Year’s. But it’s going to work out. He tries not to grimace at the price when he checks out. His buyer’s remorse is only perpetuated when he pulls five cards from the convenience store prize box and only wins a small cup of coffee jelly and an anime character folder for his trouble.

“Is this the character you wanted?” the cashier asks him.

“Huh?” Suga glances down at the folder and can’t even identify the show. Some high schooler? “Oh, yeah. This is fine.”

Should’ve left and gone to a supermarket. There’s sure to be a lecture from his father at the end of the month regarding his recent expenditures. Suga waits for Kiyoko to check out and the two of them carry their bags outside. The air is warmer with the sun high in the sky. The street is busy with cars, taxis, and buses. Trees line the street from plots in the sidewalk. 

“It looks like he left,” Kiyoko says. She shields her eyes from the sun and inspects the area.

“Who?” Suga pulls out his phone and scrolls through his contacts for Akaashi’s number.

“The one you were talking to before.” She’s swinging her bag so that the handles twist together. She lets it untwist, the bag’s contents bumping off her knee before coming to rest. Her face is understanding, but she sounds disappointed. “You can invite him to join us.”

“You don’t mind?” Suga sets one of the bags down to press the phone to his ear. It’s ringing.

“Not at all.” 

“ _Hello? Sugawara-san?_ ” He’s calmer, voice cool and even.

“Hey Akaashi. Have you eaten?”

Akaashi clears his throat and hesitates another moment before answering, “ _No, I haven’t._ ”

“Join me and my lovely friend Shimizu for a late breakfast. We’ll be on the quad by the new dormitory there.”

“ _You don’t make a habit of giving many options, do you?_ ” 

Is that reluctance? Mild amusement? Dry sarcasm? The phone distorts his voice too much.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ See you soon!” Suga hangs up.

 

Kiyoko leaves Suga outside with her bag as she runs inside for something.

Suga thinks about Kuroo. He was really excited to take the class he’s in right now. He had even stayed up late the night before senior class registration to sign up the moment the window opened. Like anyone was racing to take upper level chemistry electives. Suga had stayed up with him too, listening to the CD and destroying him at chess. In conclusion, there’s virtually zero chance that if Suga texted Kuroo to bail on his lecture that he would actually show up.

He starts a text to Kuroo, going through the various forms of hello and erasing them all. 

“Hello,” Akaashi says.

Suga is jarred out of his thoughts, grinning embarrassed. “Oh hey! I didn’t see you.”

“Texting the boyfriend again?” he guesses.

“Hah, not this time. Just my roommate. I’m just waiting for Shimizu to come out.”

Akaashi looks up at the building. It’s ten stories of sleek windows and full balconies. Futons are airing out and loads of laundry hang from clotheslines. A pair of girls on the third floor lean on the balcony railing with bedhead in big t-shirts. One of them shyly waves down at them and the other lets out a cackle and retreats into the dorm room. He gives a small wave back.

“This looks like a nice place to live. Do you know how much it costs a month?”

Suga shrugs. “No idea. The rooms are all singles with private bathrooms and personal air conditioning units. They don’t even charge for utilities, it’s all included. Plus the cafeteria provides breakfast and dinner everyday.”

“That’s the dream.”

“Hah, no kidding.” Suga sits back on the wall. “When’s your class?”

Akaashi flinches. “It’s now.”

“Hey, I don’t judge. Not feeling it today?”

“My roommate and his new boyfriend are both in the class today as well.” Akaashi is still staring up at the girl on the balcony. She’s trying to yell something down to him, but she’s not loud enough. “They look really happy.”

“Oh.” Suga’s not sure what Akaashi is doing, but that girl is effectively gesturing for him to wait there before she heads into her room. 

“I couldn’t stand it,” Akaashi says. “Holding hands, whispering sweet nothings during the lecture. I could not physically stay in that room anymore without slapping one of them in the face or bursting into tears. So I left.”

“Sounds like a reasonable choice. Which one do you think you would’ve slapped?” Suga wonders aloud. “I’d slap your roommate for being too dense.”

Akaashi sputters a laugh, but then his face darkens seriously. He holds a hand to his chin. “It’d have to the boyfriend. I could never hurt the one I love.”

“Poor boyfriend-san! It’s not even his fault.” Suga bumps an elbow into Akaashi’s side. “Though I guess he did encroach on your territory.”

He’s blushing now, reaching up to nervously tug on his left earlobe. It’s adorable. “He’s not my territory.”

It’s then that Kiyoko steps out of the elevator, visible through the glass entryway to the dormitory. She’s not alone and as Suga feared, it’s third floor balcony girl with brushed hair and a flattering sundress. Walking in tandem with Kiyoko, she produces an aura of childish cuteness. She falters when she realizes Kiyoko is walking towards Suga and Akaashi, but regains her confidence after a moment.

She gets right alongside Akaashi, barely as tall as his shoulder, wearing pink lip gloss and hope. “Um, hi. You’re cute. Want my number?”

“Sure,” Akaashi replies. He offers her his phone and she takes it eagerly, not even batting an eye at the battered screen.

“I mean, I don’t normally do things like-” she’s saying, tapping at his screen.

He interrupts, “I love your nails. They’re beautiful.”

She squeaks a thank you and tucks her hair behind her ear. “Right, so, uh I have to get ready for class now, but text me, okay?”

“I will,” he replies.

She practically runs back into the dormitory.

“Damn, Akaashi, what was that?” Suga asks, baffled. 

“I’m lonely and feeling undesirable.”

That brings Suga up short. “Well, I guess we’ve all been there.”

 

After introductions, Kiyoko spreads a sheet out across a patch of grass and takes a seat, inviting the others to join her. Suga spreads his convenience store spoils into the middle of the sheet and laughs at the way Akaashi’s eyes bug at the size of the food pile.

“We went a bit overboard, I guess,” Suga explains. “Please help yourself. I’d never finish it all. Do you like lemon tea?”

Akaashi steps out of his shoes before carefully kneeling onto the sheet. “I couldn’t possibly. .”

“Do you want some almonds, Suga?” Kiyoko offers him one of the boxes of chocolate.

“I’d love some thanks.” He plucks a piece from its confines and immediately crunches down on the candy, relishing its sweetness. “Ugh, these are my favorite. Akaashi, try one.”

The box is now offered to Akaashi, who looks from the almonds to Kiyoko’s patient, relentless smile and takes a piece. “Thank you very much.”

Kiyoko winks at Suga. He winks back, no guise of subtlety whatsoever.

 

Once Akaashi gives in to the offer, his dam of reservations bursts. He polishes off three rice balls, two pieces of sweet bread, half a liter of tea in the amount of time it takes Suga to finish picking the fruits he likes out of his jello. There is a grain of rice in the corner of Akaashi’s mouth and crumbles of seaweed on the lap of his khakis. Suga’s glad he bought as much as he did.

“So, what are you studying?” Kiyoko asks.

“I’m undeclared so far,” Akaashi explains. “Definitely some kind of science, but I’m leaning towards chemistry.”

“Are you a first year?”

“Credit-wise, I’m a junior, but this is my second year at the school.”

“How old are you?”

“Almost twenty,” he replies. He reaches towards another rice ball and his fingers shrink away from it at the last second. “Anyone want the salmon one?”

They don’t. He unwraps it carefully and swallows heavily as the scent of grilled fish enters the air. He bites and chews slowly, eyes closed, enraptured. He hums lowly, the sound deep and beyond his control. As the food passes down his throat, he returns to himself.

“What do you you two study?”

“Psychology.”

“Literature with a music minor.”

Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “How do you two even know each other?”

“Coincidence and happenstance, same as anyone,” Suga explains. “Though really, we both play cello in the on-campus ensemble and we’ve shared a stand since we were first years. I would’ve gone for a music minor too, but it’s too late now and I’d need both Piano I and II.”

“I still think you could handle them both at the same time,” Kiyoko adds.

Akaashi’s expression falls. “You’re graduating?”

“Yeah, gotta cross the finish line at some point. I’m ready to be finished,” Suga says. 

Kiyoko lays back on the sheet and folds her hands over her belly. “I’m going to miss it here.”

“Me too.” Suga rubs his eyes and fights down a yawn. “But I already feel like I’m being propelled forward and out of this place. With each day, seeing new students, doing the same homework, walking the same paths, smelling the old dust and coffee smell of the classrooms. . feels less right.”

“An organ slowly being rejected by the body,” she concurs.

“That seems dark,” Akaashi remarks.

She explains, “It’s not a bad feeling. Just feels like it’s time to move on.”

Akaashi drinks the last drops of his tea and puts the bottle in one of the empty bags. “Are all seniors melodramatic and fake-deep like this?”

“It is the woe of all those in transition periods in life,” Suga confirms.

 

The lecture is finally over. Kuroo felt like he’d been holding his breath since Akaashi left, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It does, though, with Bokuto packed up in record speed and sliding out of the row in thirty seconds flat. It occurs to him to wait once he’s on the stairs and looks at Kuroo, lightly jogging in place.

“Why don’t you go on ahead?” Kuroo calls. “I’ll catch up with you in P-Chem.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, dude, it’s fine. Text me when you find out what’s up with Akaashi, okay?” 

“Alright, yeah. Later!”

Bokuto sprints up the stairs and slams open the auditorium doors, barely losing momentum on his way out. Damn, he’s fast.

Kuroo doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that Akaashi started acting weird. He’s had a long, awkward lecture to connect the dots and feel progressively shittier about it with each passing moment. 

Outside, the air is warm, but Kuroo is determined to not enjoy it. The sun is too bright for him to scroll through Reddit and brings an unfriendly reminder of his lingering hangover to the forefront of his mind. 

He looks up just in time to flinch before a frisbee beams him in the forehead. He staggers and curses, holding a hand over a rapidly rising welt.

There’s yelling. Some guy is running over to him. A woman asks if he’s okay. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he announces, waving off the attention. As if to prove it, Kuroo plucks the frisbee off the path and realizes that it’s oddly heavy. He tosses it directly towards the guy heading over and it glides smoother than he’s ever seen. The guy catches it, raises an eyebrow, and holds a thumbs up.

“Yeah, it’s all good, man,” Kuroo yells. He waves and hastens his pace directly back to his dormitory. He can’t stop touching the bump on his head. Ow. Jesus, that was one hell of a frisbee. Maybe ice. Is this what karma feels like?

The moment he’s inside the building, he takes out his phone to tell Bokuto and stops himself. It’s just not the right time. 

His room is quiet. He throws his bag onto the floor besides his desk and turns on his laptop. Media player starts alongside Skype and Steam after he logs in, offering to play the disc in the drive. A few clicks and the opening baseline of the CD plays from the laptop’s speakers and chases away the silence. 

It’s been long enough to justify a second dose of painkillers. He chases them with a gulp of mildly off-tasting water from a water bottle that probably should be washed. There’s laundry to be done, but he still has two pairs of underwear left. Should probably wash his bedding, too. Preferably with fabric softener. Might help out his acne if he stopped sleeping on the same greasy pillowcase every night. 

He still has two readings, one (or two?) assignments left to complete, and one quiz’s worth of studying for this week’s classes. On a small whiteboard hung besides his desk, he lists the tasks out in a bulleted list in no particular order. He caps the marker with a nod of satisfaction and lays down on his bed. A memory nags him with a lingering concern about sleeping after sustaining a head wound, but not enough to bother fact-checking.

The ceiling is speckled, high enough above him that he’d have to stand on his bed to touch it. It’s just as rough as it looks. When he had first started college, he’d been able to jump from the floor and slap it with his palm. Suga could only graze it with his fingertip and punched Kuroo for even suggesting that he’d be able to reach it one day if he kept trying. He should add “go back to the gym” to the list. Bokuto invites him to go at least once a week and, to Kuroo’s credit, he typically accepts. But as the weather gets colder, he finds it harder to find the motivation to leave the warmth of his room. 

He doesn’t want to think about what Bokuto and Akaashi are probably talking about. Not that he can help it. Should he be jealous? Kuroo’s not sure. The moral high ground of defending his not quite two-day relationship from others is trivial.

A lyric from the song playing grabs his attention, _And if you go, I’ll smile and we’ll pretend that we were never anything more._

Kuroo laughs. All these years of sad, drunk, and lost love songs and he finally relates to one. He sits up before the song comes to an end and reaches over from the foot of his bed to replay it from the beginning. He remembers what Momoka said when she gave it to him, on their graduation day, after she dumped him. That the words only make sense when you’re feeling the right way. At the time, Kuroo was more concerned with controlling the urge to chuck the CD into traffic and watch it get run over by a tractor trailer. 

He’ll be fine. Whatever happens. He finally sends that text, asking how Akaashi is doing, and doesn’t worry about it. 

 

Suga gathers the trash and the recyclables in separate bags to be disposed of. Kiyoko and Akaashi fold the sheet together. The remaining leftovers are divvied up between Kiyoko and Akaashi - Suga just keeps the drink he got for Kuroo.

“I should give you my number before you go,” Kiyoko says, taking the corners from Akaashi and turning the sheet.

“I’d like that.”

“Akaashi!!”

Suga whips his head around to stare at a man barrelling through the between-classes traffic. He’s shouting his excuse me’s and apologies over his shoulder to those he collides shoulders with and racking up disapproving and derisive looks left and right. He is tall, broad and loud. His hair gives Suga questions and it clashes with the true red of his graphic t-shirt. 

Akaashi doesn’t turn, even as the man’s voice is close enough to ring in his ears. He looks to Suga with a silent plea and drops his side of the sheet to cross his arms over his belly.

Kiyoko asks, “Do you know that person?”

Akaashi only has time to reply, “He’s a friend.”

The man grabs Akaashi by the shoulder and turns him around into a swift hug and squeezes a grunt out of him. “I was so worried about you, man.”

“I’m okay, Bokuto-san.”

Wait.

Suga knows who this is. This is the chem student on track to graduate with the highest GPA in the department. The poster child for leg day. The reason Kuroo is covered in hickies.

But beyond that, he’s seen Bokuto before. In Facebook photos and snapchats from Kuroo, for sure. In passing, when Suga notices the chemistry study group gathered in the library, getting scolded for speaking too loudly. 

Bokuto is listening to Akaashi explain what he’s been up to since he abruptly left class, hanging on every word. Akaashi neglects to mention his emotional breakdown in 7-11 and blames the departure on hunger instead.

“ _What_?” Bokuto clenches his fists at his sides and glares down at the ground. “It’s all my fault. I was supposed to go shopping last night. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no,” Akaashi says. “You offered to buy my breakfast on the way into school, remember? I turned you down because I was worried that we were running late.”

“Eating is more important than getting to class on time. You know that.” It doesn’t sound like the first time they’ve had this conversation. “And if I’d gone shopping like I was supposed to this wouldn’t’ve happened.”

“I’m better now.”

Bokuto sighs. “M glad you’re better. These your friends?”

Akaashi blinks and checks over his shoulder. He clears his throat. “Yes.”

“You always end up meeting good people, ‘Kaashi.” Bokuto smiles widely and holds a hand out. “Suga, right? Been a while.”

Dazed, Suga accepts the handshake. “It has been.”

Though for the life of him, Suga can not recall having a proper introduction before. If Bokuto notices his hesitation, he doesn’t show it. He simply turns away and fixes Kiyoko with an equal amount of neutral exuberance. 

“And Kiyoko-san! Still playing the cello?” Bokuto asks.

“I do,” she replies with a polite smile. “Do you still. .” She trails off, searching the sky for her memories. “Draw?”

“Yeah! I still have the sketchbook from first year and trust me, I have gotten _way_ better at drawing people with glasses since then.”

Akaashi watches Bokuto. It’s odd to see that look on a new face. That lovestruck neverending epiphany that someone is so treasured, you can’t do anything but stare. But it’s fading fast, the pride and adoration become glassy. He massages his sternum with his knuckles and gazes out into the distance.

Bokuto and Akaashi agree that they should review the powerpoint they missed. The four of them exchange good-byes and agree to meet up again soon.

Kiyoko and Suga go up to her room. He gives the top of his instrument case a loving pet. She stands in front of her sliding balcony door, her back to Suga.

“You know, I think I understand him a little,” she says.

“Akaashi? Yeah. He’s in deep, but if I didn’t know any better, I’d have assumed they were already dating.”

“Maybe.” She turns around, fiddling with the ends of her hair and adds, “Did you know that I liked you? When we were first years?”

Suga’s taken aback, but settles on honesty. “Yeah, I knew.”

Kiyoko nods, processing, before she smiles. “I’m glad we became friends.”

“Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading. :D


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